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thelastofhyde · 1 month ago

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the likeability complex.

chapter 3. the butterfly theory.

pairing. joel miller x fem!reader

synopsis. two seasons pass before joel’s very eyes and, without the presence of his sol, neither the spring nor the summer seem to heat his aching bones. what’s meant to be a simple drop off at bill and frank’s becomes a whirlwind of events that send you barrelling right back into joel’s arms, and all it takes is one horrified shriek: otis is missing!

warnings. no use of y/n ( reader has the nickname of sol ), grumpy x sunshine dynamic, unspecified age-gap ( but i personally picture the reader to be mid-20s at this point in the story ), pining, love as obsession, mention of previous s.a. & miscarriage, death, reader is implied to have had a good relationship with her mom, smut ( handjobs, male masturbation, dry humping, joel is desperate and begging, fantasies of piv, oral sex, and anal sex, mentions of virginity loss/younger joel having been a milf lover )

word count. 14.3k

hyde’s input. instead of addressing the reasons it took so long for this part to come out, let me address this instead: joel miller is a man who loves himself some prone bone! nothing gets that old man off quite like fucking his lover down into the mattress, the carpet, the dirt-floor, full body weight pressed against them, head buried in the crook of their necks as he literally smothers them with his love. in this essay i will...

read on ao3. series masterlist. previous chapter. following chapter

Time, as a matter of fact, does not fly.

At some point, Joel may have claimed it ticked, from one minute to another, until the hours passed by and another day’s work was done. He can no longer agree with this sentiment, for a multitude of reasons. For starters — and perhaps the most obvious — a broken clock may be right twice a day, but it is eternally silent. The dials on his wrist stopped ticking long ago and, with it, so did time.

So maybe time crawls. Slow as a newborn finds its feet, over carpeted floors and through cramped spaces. It seems to do so in spring, the tease of the impending heat of a summer’s sun on his back while the fading chill of winter in the breeze messes his overgrown hair. Joel can almost feel himself bending to match it’s slow crawl, his knees aching, a few of his fingers breaking — the consequence of a sloppy punch, thumb trapped beneath his four curled fingers, thrown without a second thought at the sight of one of Robert’s lowlifes placing a filthy hand on Tess. At the very least, the asshole’s nose burst with a bloody red, a reminder of the roses in Frank’s garden.

The trading is kept to the boundaries of their gates this season and, no matter how hard he twists his neck, nor how far lets his eyes run off ahead of him, there is no glimpse of a skirt billowing in the wind, nor the sound of smile-woven words. Just Bill, face as scrunched up as a constipated hole, gruffing out the bare-minimum of words to let Tess know one of his generators is starting to fail, before handing over a list of things they’ll need to bring with their next visit.

Joel cranes his neck one last time before departing and, still, there’s no sight of you.

Summer brings a whole new meaning to things and, thus, time begins to flow, like a river swimming towards the sanction of the ocean. The days wash away, sleepless nights slip into hellish mornings. The couch is being used so much that Joel’s indent has become stained into its very fabric.

This time, they are let in. Bill needs the help, in over his head with how easily he’d be able to fix the failing generator, and so they wind up being pulled through the gates and presented with the dying power source. Bill still wears a frown, even as he thanks Joel for fixing the damned thing. The four sit and break bread at a table, that seat which sits directly across from his empty in a way that he can’t avoid or ignore. The nerves to ask why you aren’t around never quite work themselves up.

What, or better said who, he does see is Otis. And what a relief it is to be sent near stumbling to his feet, the fully grown beast’s size a laughable contrast to its excited whines and wagging tail. He lets himself be tricked into taking the dog for a walk, in which every kick of Otis’ legs reminds Joel that his sol is still here, hiding in plain sight, not a single hope in hell that you’d leave your fur-friend behind.

In Autumn, the leaves begin to fall.

Joel’s dwindling hope seems to follow.

Time has become a threat. A jagged rock clasped in the hands of a volatile assailant. It is the impending feeling of bracing for impact, only for it to never hit. Because a threat can no longer be a threat once it is enacted, and time is no longer quite time once it passes by.

In between the pause of the present and the future, that is where time sits.

And, on either side of it, Joel and Bill occupy a seat.

“‘S quiet,” Joel’s not talking about the tense silence that has blanketed the past ten or so minutes, however long it’s been since the two were left in no company but one another’s.

Bill, aware of his implications or not, shrugs. “Is that a problem?”

Joel shakes his head, and swallows down that lump he gets in his throat every time he lies. He’s been doing that more often than he’d like recently, lying.

To Tess, whenever she’d ask him where he disappears to, slipping out of their shared bed in the middle of the night. She’d not enjoy the truth of him pacing the living room and lamenting upon the cracked leather of their couch.

To FEDRA, when a group of so-called soldiers ambushed him in demands to know why he’d been spotted attempting to smuggle a dress. They’d not believed the tale he spun of it belonging to Tess.

And, to himself, when he’s searching for answers of what’s been keeping him awake at night. Between the cries of whom he lost, and the moans of who he desires, he’s a sleepless wreck.

Laughter comes from another room. The distant duo of Tess and Frank bring more life to this deadly atmosphere than either of the two tense men. Theirs is a complicated relationship. No smiles exchanged, no warmth shared. Respect seems to be the glue that holds them together, a mutual understanding between natural protectors. Just as Joel snaps his bones without hesitation on behalf of Tess, Bill double-locks the doors and secures the perimeter each night as Frank and you lay sound asleep.

With this in mind, Joel treads with care as he descends further into the topic at hand. He decides to treat his own self the same way he’d once taught a stubborn curly haired girl to swim: throwing himself into the deep end.

“Ain’t seen much of your...” He pauses, considers what word best suits Bill’s affections for you. He finds himself at a loss. “The girl. She doin’ alright?”

That’s it, he’ll keep it casual.

Passive, hardly-caring.

Totally not headache-inducing each time a new tally is added to how many days it’s been since he’d last seen you — two hundred and four, but who’s keeping count?

“She’s fine,” the answer is curt. A coughed out sort of thing, heaved out of Bill like it aches to even speak. He’s not entertaining Joel’s longing.

“That’s... good, yeah,” he’s not sure he believes his answer. Good has never sounded so distasteful. “I’ll let Tess know, give ‘er some peace of mind. She’s been wonderin’-”

“Cut the shit,” Bill barks over at him. “You aren’t asking for Tess.”

He could try lie, again. Play the innocent, shrug his shoulders or furrow his brows, an image to mock what could be confusion. But the other man would see right through him, each and every time. Joel has no choice but to surrender. “Where’s she been? Can’t remember the last time I saw her.”

“Didn’t realise you were keeping count.” Is it that obvious? Perhaps he needs to adopt a new method of going about the ways in which he approaches the subject of you. Does Bill know he’d gone back to your room that night, instead of the toilet? The man has a fondness for cameras, perhaps he set one up in your room, or all over the house. Joel’s heart-rate spikes as he wonders if there’s one in the kitchen. “She’s out.”

Out.

A simple enough word, yet it crashes down on Joel like a ten-ton bag of dynamite, imploding his thoughts and reality. Because out to Bill means something far different than merely being out of this house. Out means beyond the electrified gates. Out means danger, someplace Joel can’t stomach the thought of you being, much less if it’s without him.

“You sure that’s the right thing to do?”

“I don’t need your opinion on how I raise-” Bill cuts himself off with a deep breath. He clears his throat. “I don’t need your opinion on how I take care of my people. She’s a smart girl, and it’s not her first time. She’s been going on solo runs since the end of winter.”

An act you’d never have been able to achieve, had he not taught you how to hold your own behind the wheel. That fact alone is enough to send bile burning to the back of his throat. He’s scorned you with the ability to put yourself in harm’s way.

A question of why seems to slip past his lips as his own thoughts abuse his heart, the word sounding far too pathetic and pleading for a man of Joel’s stature, reputation and morals.

“We’re old, she isn’t. There’s gonna come a day where she’s alone and needs to choose if she wants to stay here or move on.” The other man’s risen from his seat, paying no mind to the way the legs of it screech against the hardwood floor. He speaks passively, as though he’s merely reciting the weather as opposed to speaking of the approaching closing of the curtains on his life, and where that would leave the most valuable possession Joel could only ever dream to smuggle: alone, defenceless, in need of a new home. He too could use a new home these days. “And if she doesn’t get a choice and has to run, she needs to be able to adapt. She needs to know how to survive out in that shit-hole of a world.”

Ask me, the words crack like thunder in his head and shake his very core. Ask it of me, and I’ll make sure she’s never alone.

Bill never asks.

The floorboards creak behind Bill as he makes his way to retrieve his partner, leaving Joel to his solitude without the sparing of another word.

Scanning the room, Joel lets himself indulge in the freedom to be curious, to let his eyes wander for more than a few threatened seconds in which he runs the risk of a frowning Bill ringing his neck for snooping.

The place is homey, that has never been in doubt.

The first time he ventured inside nearly left him retching on their bathroom floor, skin chilled and eyes burning as that uncanny-valley feeling overtook his guts. Playin’ house, that’s what he’d proclaimed to Tess on that first journey back to the QZ. Rest ‘f us are out here fightin’ for the right to exist, and these two assholes are playin’ house.

The misplaced anger was truly Joel’s green eyed envy.

And his own self-hatred.

Maybe if he’d been prepared like Bill, he’d have less blood on his hands. Maybe if he’d foreseen the day that shit would hit the fan, he’d never have felt how thick her blood ran, through his fingers and down his arms. Maybe if he thought smarter, worked harder, all his losses would have been nothing but a whisper in passing winds, brushing past him and taking the impending storm they promised over to the next unfortunate bastard.

A polaroid picture captures his attention, pulling him away from the edge of his mountain of self-loathing thoughts.

It lures him out from the safety of the dining table and over towards a cabinet. Meaningless memorabilia and porcelain trinkets decorate the ageing furniture, a blob of motionless browns, tans and beiges that seem to match the colourless feeling in his chest. Among it, a burst of red. Joel has it in his grasp in a matter of seconds, calloused hands likely tainting the image with his fingerprints, and blinks in an attempt to focus his ageing eyes.

When the haze settles, you greet him.

You look young, younger than you are now. Your hair seems just that tad lighter with the sun’s rays shining a spotlight somewhere off-camera to the right. There’s a cheek-splitting grin across your lips, while bags puff out from beneath your closed eyes, lines to match his own crow’s feet forming under the pressure of your radiant joy. The image cuts off just below your shoulders and captures how your two hands sit parallel at either side of your chin, the source of the red gripped in each of them: strawberries. One for each hand. The left has a chunk bitten out of it, a perfect match to the shape of your mouth and the red tint at the corner of your lips. But it’s the right hand that holds his attention, it’s grip on him as powerful as your hand on the strawberry. He imagines you were excited, buzzing with too much energy and with no place to put it, your nimble fingers resorting to burying it in the layers of the fruit, the tips of your nails stabbing into the surface of the berry.

As his gaze traces the grainy image of berry-blood pouring down your fingers and over the back of your hand, he pictures his heart in the place of the red fruit. He’d want you to squeeze tighter, dig your nails in until you’re knuckles deep and his blood paints you, dripping off your elbow.

The thought of whether you washed your hand after the image was taken, or merely shrugged and licked the juice off yourself sparks his curiosity.

He snuffs the flame out before it can make itself too comfortable.

Getting the polaroid back into place feels an impossible task, with Joel’s shaky hands and prone-to-overthinking brain not willing to work together to get it back to where it originally sat, to where Bill won’t immediately notice it’s been tampered with the next time he so much as walks past it.

His eyes catch onto the faded black marker at the bottom of the picture. Baby’s first harvest, ‘13.

It sparks a memory in him, one of hearing your overexcited whispers over the radio-com at an hour far too late to justify being awake, Tess’ figure scooted down to the bottom of the mattress in an attempt to not waken him. Strawberries, Tess, you’d gushed in excitement, voice so pure he could feel it cleansing away all the sins stained within his fingerprints. We grew strawberries! You need to come visit soon! Do you think Joel likes strawberry jam?

He does like strawberry jam.

And he’d been afraid you’d never give him another batch after his dismissive acceptance of it the first time. The growing collection of empty jars he keeps are evidence of the truth, the yearly harvest of the berries bringing him the promise of something to feed his sweet-tooth.

With a baritone growl from his stomach, Joel’s attention carries him off into the kitchen, eyes struggling to look past the spot of the counter he’d had you pressed up against. Only now, standing within the room, does he realise he’d not been in it since that night.

His mouth runs dry at the memory.

This time, it is not through messy scoops of water that he chooses to quench this thirst. Instead, he zeroes in on the large bowl of ripened strawberries that sit atop the counter and digs, till his fingers wrap around the largest, reddest, juiciest looking one of the bunch.

Heaven makes a home on his taste buds with just one bite.

Tangy, fruity, fresh. Wet on his tongue, delicious in his mouth. It paints him memories of you, hand grasping the hem of your own skirt, hips tilting ever-so-slightly back and thighs shaking under the stress of his teasing tongue.

A second bite, a whole new wave of sensations.

His body, with a mind of its own, awakens the pumping of blood down to his crotch. Replaying the sound of your knife falling from your grasp, his cock hardens within the confines of worn-out jeans.

If he were to disappear off into the bathroom to rub one out, would the others even notice?

Perhaps he could take a detour, get lost on his way to that familiar toilet. The third door. It would creak upon opening, but maybe he could cover it with a cough, or simply pray the other three remain too far away to notice. From what he can remember, he’d be able to reach your bed with four steps. Sit on your sheets, bask in their warmth, their softness, their smell of you. Wind his hand down beneath his belt, grip his aching cock as he bathes in your unpresent presence. Stain your sheets in the thick, creamy white poison that shoots out his tip. How long would it take you to notice it painted on the back of your pillowcase? Would it happen instantly, or would it be late into the night, nothing but a lamp to light up the room, as you sleepily flip it over in search of the cold side, only to lay your face back down and be met with the sticky substance against your cheek? Would you lick it clean, drag the tip of your nail through it before caressing that very same finger over your pretty clit and-

“Ok, so I didn’t manage to get, like, anything you guys asked for! But, guess what I did find?”

Joel nearly chokes on the stem of the strawberry.

That voice.

Too kind to be Bill, too lively to be Tess, too feminine to be Frank.

It’s all you, rambling over excited breaths and stumbling around your words. He can’t see you yet, and it nearly kills him to not run off in search of the sound. He needs to sit and wait, and pray the tent being pitched in his trousers deflates by the time you reach him.

You’re getting closer by the second and life grants him no relief. If anything, the pulsating ache that sits between his thighs grows stronger as your footsteps get louder. This is it, he’s really about to see you. Finally, after so long.

What will you say? Will you say anything? Will you smile at the sight of him? Have you noted the lack of him in your days, just as he’d lamented it through his nights? Have you missed him?

Mind a frenzy of questions, it steals away the joy of watching you step into the room.

Instead, you seem to almost manifest before his eyes, two steps through the door and two hands behind your back. Scanning you from head to toe — and confirming a lack of bumps, cuts or bruises — his shoulders fall slack as he reaches your face at last.

You are smiling.

At him.

“Howdy, stranger!” Normally, he’d find your attempt to mimic some poor stereotype of his accent irritating at best, infuriating at worst. Right now, however, still riddled in withdrawals of you, Joel allows a corner of his mouth to quirk up. “Long time no see!”

There’s a million things Joel thinks to say to you.

Like how your absence has been painfully noted. Or tips on the proper ways to throw a punch, lest you wind up like him, bruised fingers and all. Or like the way he’s missed tasting your cooking, and the way you standing there, lit up in the doorway, radiant smile and electric eyes, seems to be healing a little piece of his fragmented heart, yet shaking his nerve-stricken hands. None of these thoughts manage to reach the surface.

Instead, Joel inhales.

And chokes on the stem of the strawberry.

“Oh my god, Joel!” You’re quick to react, shrugging off the bag from your shoulder and rushing over to him. You clap your hand over his back several times, and perhaps it’s the heat of feeling you touch some part of him at last, that final piece of confirmation that you’re real, and breathing, and standing so close to him in this kitchen, but he continues to feign choking even moments after he rids himself of the blockage. “You okay there, big guy? Don’t go dying in this kitchen or else Bill’s gonna lose his shit!”

Big guy. That’s new. Joel’s indecisive as to how he feels about such a name.

He means to say he’s fine, but then your hand is soothing over his back in comforting rubs. And when he works up the nerve to tell you he’s okay, you’re holding a glass up to his lips and feeding him water down his burning throat.

It’s nice to be comforted.

It’s even nicer to be comforted by you.

Catching himself moments away from leaning into your touch, Joel stumbles a single step back, colliding with the very same counter edge he’d tasted you against, and looks past you. Because he can’t look at you, not when the unfocused version of you that takes up space in his peripheral seems so tangible, bright, touchable. If Joel wanted to, he’s mere inches away from being able to sink his teeth in and eat you alive.

It’s dangerous, how much he wants to.

He spies your backpack, discarded on the ground, contents from it spilling out across the tiled flooring. Most of its junk — some nuts and bolts he’s sure Bill will find a place for, scraps of papers and faded movie posters that reminisce on what the world once was, a miscellaneous cloth stained in the red ink of death that has Joel questioning just who exactly had been bleeding — but there’s something else capturing his attention.

It’s not fully out of the bag, merely a corner of it peeking out the pulled-back zipper and gifting him the view of a worn-down box he’s sure was once a colour more akin to yellow than its current rotting brown.

“‘S that ya got?” He slips past you, hands reaching out and heading straight for the obscure item. The cardboard welts under the pressure of his grip, the top of the box popping open with an uncomfortable ease.

“Oh, that’s what I wanted to show Frank-” The moment Joel’s eyes read over the faded slogan, he has no time to wait on a real answer, flipping the lid to a trash can open and dangling the box over the top. “Hey, what are you doing?!”

“Throwin’ this shit out-” You’re near him. No, next to him, body heat mingling with his own as you shoot forward and try your luck at prying your treasure out of his grip. But Joel is stronger, larger, quicker, arm stretching up above his head and holding the box out of your reach.

He doesn’t comment on the fact the little jump you give as you try to reach only invites him to ogle the bounce of your tits under your shirt.

“Why? It’s harmless,” you plead against him, with your tone of voice and your eyes of sorrow, pitiful in the way they twist up his insides and leave him craving your blinding smile. Still, he’s an immovable force, grip tightened on the box as his other hand clamps down around your wrists, prying your hands away from him. “It’s literally just cake mix!”

You fight back, wriggling and squirming, trying your best to slip through his fingers. Joel squeezes tighter, ignoring the bile that burns the back of his throat as he pictures you come sunrise, bruises of his fingerprints burnt into your flesh. A new wave of nausea follows as the familiar heat returns to his loins, a feral part of him preening at the fact you’ll own some part of him, even as he’s miles away and crawling back through the gutters of the QZ.

“Ain’t no way in hell I'm lettin’ you eat that.” He says it for your own good, your own safety.

All the same, the eerie calm that comes over you makes him feel dirty and immoral for letting such words slip out.

“Letting me?” You parrot his words. With frozen features, you seize all fighting, all resistance, hands going slack in his hold. An unsettling smile overcomes you, something malevolent lurking beneath the surface of your typical kindness. “Joel, you’re no one to let me do anything. You have no say, no control, whatsoever. Understand?”

It’s a kick in the guts.

And not because he wants to control you. Or, maybe, if he’s honest with himself, a part of him does want to. Wants to keep you wrapped under his arm where no threat can approach you, longs to spend his working days awaiting the return to safety in the shape of a bed warmed by you, him and all the delicate sins you could share. But, more-so, because it makes him feel powerless, unable to put distance between you and harm’s way.

He’d felt true powerlessness years back, blood on his hands and a lifeless daughter in his arms. A shot missed and a whole lot of sobbing later, he’d vowed to never put himself in a position to feel that again. He kept Tommy close, to an obsessive degree. And when Tess came along and he eventually let himself give into the feeling of accepting another pair of lungs into his family, he kept her closer, living a life of keeping a watchful eye and a ready hand for any moment of violence. He’d do the same with you, if you’d just let him pull you into his circle, a space freed up ever since Tommy left him with nothing but a string of curses and an I don’t ever wanna see your face again to remember him by.

Of course, Joel doesn’t tell you that.

Instead, he gives in to the irrational anger your fighting back awakens in him.

“The flour, you stupid girl, ‘s what started all this shit.” He spits the words out, mind barely registering the way you flinch back when his face inches closer to yours. “But if you wanna turn yourself into some mushroomed freak, then go ‘head and be my guest.”

It’s like a fog clears and, suddenly, your calmness feels less threatening and that tinge of whatever it was — violence, disobedience, assertiveness? — in your eyes slips away and makes space for amusement. Only, the amusement will not sit still, seeping out of you in bright eyes and poorly held-back giggles.

He’s so caught up in it, caught up in you, that he fails to register you stepping closer. It’s only when he feels the brush of your breath against his cheek, and the bump of his nose against your own as he leans down into you, that the lack of space between you sinks in.

“You don’t have to worry about me, Joel.” The biggest lie of the century. He’s well aware of your prone-to-accident self, losing count of the amount of times he’s spotted bruises all over you and listened to Frank recount tale after tale of how you’d walked into a door, and stumbled down some stairs, and tripped over your laces. If anything, you’re the only thing Joel has to worry about. Especially with how much closer you’re getting, your own breath starting where his ends, chest pulling in to inhale and make space for his exhale. Perfect sync, a flowing motion, just begging to be ruined by locked lips and urgent kisses, feaverish passion that’ll leave him at a loss of both words and breath. “Besides, this batch is harmless...”

God, you’re so close. All he can smell is you — sweat, and wilted flowers, and vanilla, and a trickle of gunpowder. He can feel you, breasts pressing against his chest, hand pressing down on his aching shoulders, mouth taunting him a hair’s breadth away from his own. What he sees of you is far more torturous, bathing him in the impurity of coy looks, and teasing smiles, and soft skin yet to be marked by time and the torture of living. If Joel could just taste you, for just a second, then all those two hundred and four brutal days and sleepless nights would suddenly feel worth it.

Your eyes level with his own as the hand on his shoulder pushes him further down. It’s going to happen, he knows this, he’s accepted this. You’re going to kiss him, and he’s going to let you, and then he’s going to spend the rest of however long it takes for you to kiss him again thinking of how your lips feel.

Just a little closer...

That’s it. Kiss him.

Kiss him.

God, please. Kiss me.

“Check the production date for yourself!” Like whiplash, you pull back and send him reeling, muscles stiffening in a rapid attempt to keep him from keening over at the loss of your supportive hold. The disappointment that follows robs him of the horror of realising he’s now empty-handed, the withered box of artificial flavours and powdery evils secured tightly in your own grip.

You’re holding it out to him, finger pointing at a faded black ink. He squints his eyes and, sure enough, there it is: Mfg. 2001.

“Still don’t mean you should eat it,” Joel’s stubborn, despite all, and can’t seem to tamper down the burning in his loins that warns him against you eating such a thing. “‘S gonna be long past its sell-by.”

“Please,” you scoff, a snark-filled smile upon your face. You seem to be enjoying this act of defiance, or perhaps it’s the helplessness upon Joel’s face you find amusement in, torturing the older man with his inability to take care of you. “Sell-bys are just recommendations for the weak-stomached.”

A disturbance comes in the sound of thundering steps. The door behind you slams open, handle leaving its indent in the wall with a brutal force.

There stands Tess, a shine of sweat on her forehead and nervous twitching in her fingers.

Something is wrong.

Joel feels sick.

Merely a moment passes before the two owners of the home join the scene, Frank’s hand nervously tugging back on Bill’s arm the moment the man notices you, Joel and the nonexistent space that lives between you both.

“Tess!” Bless, you seem unaware of the heavy atmosphere settling within the kitchen, throwing your arms out and darting forward to wrap them around the older woman. She halts you, holds you just that bit out of reach, and Joel nearly scolds her for leaving you looking like a lost puppy, deflated as your hands come to rest at your sides once more, cake-mix forgotten in your newfound disillusion and hitting the floor with a muted thud as it slips out your sweaty palms. “What’s wrong? Why are you breathing so heavily?”

“Me and Frank... we were walking...” She keeps pausing to heave in breaths. The grip she’s got on you loosens and her hands slowly come to rest on her knees as she haunches over. Joel steps a little closer to you, hackles rising at the thought of danger. “A hole... Under the fence...”

Red alert. Loud, angry, threatening thoughts invade his mind, blaring at him like a siren refusing to go ignored. He’s got his fingers wrapped around the holster that houses his revolver in a matter of seconds. The safety’s on, he’ll need to remember that before he dares use it.

“How many?” He mumbles out, in true Joel fashion, and watches Tess meet his face at last. Confusion flashes through her features. “Raiders, infected, or whatever. How many of ‘em got in?”

He can’t help the anger that rises in him, teeth grinding down to hold back the curses aimed towards Bill. He warned him, that first time they’d met, to upgrade those damn fences.

“No,” Tess struggles in another breath. Frank seems worried, but that’s not what makes Joel sick to his stomach. It’s Bill, who’s pale as a ghost and uncomfortably quiet, eyes locked on the ground, that scares him half to death. “Nothing’s got in. It’s out, something got-”

“I swear I turned my back for one second, kid,” as if everything else wasn’t enough, Bill makes himself gentle and cautious, approaching you like you’re a wounded fawn and Joel’s some menacing stag behind you, ready to stab his horns into the heart of any who mean you harm.

“What-” you start.

“The hell are you lot talkin’ about?” Joel finishes.

They exchange looks among the three of them, each one more pressing in the way they plead the other to speak up, explain the situation.

Frank takes the fall.

“It’s Otis,” he’s exasperated, exclaiming it like it’s the heaviest of burdens. Joel can’t quite see your face but he imagines whatever expression you’re wearing must be heart-wrenching, so much so that Bill can not bring himself to meet your eyes. “Otis is missing!”

There’s a sharp silence that takes over the room, scratching at everyone’s eyes and burrowing itself down your throats, making a nest that gets in the way of what’s spoken aloud.

Joel watches your head sluggishly nod. You stumble a few steps back, catching his boots beneath the heel of your own. His hands make haste with supporting you, physically and emotionally.

“He was with me this morning,” Bill picks up again, tension thick in the air as his words slice through it. He’s explaining himself, voice layered with guilt and other emotions Joel’s never imagined the man capable of. “Out in the chicken coop. Started barking at something past the fence and... none of us have seen him since.”

The revelation has Joel retracing his own steps and, indeed, no four-legged creature had launched itself at him earlier, as he and Tess entered the gates. Nor had any paw-prints followed his footsteps through the mud, and no ball had been dropped before him, followed by a demanding bark that was guaranteed to get him to give in and throw the damned thing, if only to shut the dog up. Otis has not crossed his path once, a realisation he never imagined would bring him desperation.

A deep gasp cuts through the tension.

A few deep breaths. Four, to be exact. As you attempt a fifth, you waver and your exhale grows shaky. You pull air in deeper and it doesn’t seem to be enough, forcing your mouth open. The descent into hyperventilating is quick, a path Joel’s all-too familiar with, and the panic swells through your heart before anyone can try to stop it.

Joel acts fast, instinct leading his actions. He turns you to face him, grip firm on your shoulders as he holds your attention on him, big hands on your soft cheeks and tilting your head back to find your eyes. Glassy, wide, panicked. It's the hopelessness behind them that gets the best of him though.

“He’s fine, alright? Probably just saw some rabbit he wanted to chase.'' It's hard for a man like him to sound optimistic. Were you anyone else, he’d be telling you how dumb you were to keep a pet in the first place, nothing more than another mouth to feed and another life to watch out for in an age where safety is a luxury. But you aren’t anyone else, and Joel Miller will always be partial to his Sol. “Hey, hey, listen t’me. He’s gonna be okay. Bet he’s out there right now tryna find his way back, we just gotta meet him halfway.”

You nod along to his words, as though you’re listening, but your thousand-yard-stare says otherwise, eyes gazing past his wide shoulders. Unblinking, unmoving, you seem lost in a daze of emotions Joel's never prepared himself to see on your features. It twists at his guts to watch your figure attempt to follow him in the first steps he takes away from you, halted only by his own hands clasping down on your frame, coaxing you backwards until you find grip upon the kitchen counter.

After a cautious step back, eyeing you like you’re a wounded bunny two seconds from bolting, he turns to Bill. “Give me a few hours. I’ll track the dog and bring him home, alright?”

A half hour, a packed bag, and a rifle slung over his shoulder later, Joel finds himself at the scene of the crime, chicken shit on his shoes and his usual scowl on his face. Not having even stepped a foot out of the gated paradise and he’s already encountered his first obstacle: Otis has not clawed his way out of the fence but, instead, dug his way under it.

Fresh mud lays ahead, faint yet visible paw-prints lead off into the array of woods. He grabs a hold of the fence’s newly exposed bottom and justifies the way he further destroys it, bending the metal to his will and proning his way under it, with his faith in Bill's ability to fix the hole up in the time it takes him to find the creature.

Moving to a crouch, and ignoring the crunch of his bent knees, he eyes up the prints in the mud. The sight of only one set of tracks gives him a fleeting moment of comfort, until the thought of Otis having chased after something already so far in the distance pops into his head.

Your voice calls out his name from behind.

Sweat slicked skin, your fingers grab at the wiry fence, ripping the thing up with far less care Joel had given it. Bill will still find a way to blame him for the extended damage.

“I'm coming with you,” you speak with such determination behind your voice, Joel nearly forgets to actually pay attention to what you’re saying.

His reaction is instinctual, shooting back to hold the fence down, struggling to keep you within its confines, gritting out a firm no. “You sure as hell ain’t.”

“Yes, I am.” You tug uselessly at the fence. The wires stretch a third time, until a few snap.

“No.”

He holds his ground.

“Yes.”

You wriggle a hand under the fence, an action that forces him to loosen his grip. He can’t risk harming you, not even for your own good.

“No, you are-”

“Joel, please,” there’s exhaustion in your plea. A hint of desperation, too. He catches how you glimpse over your shoulder and observes the only item you carry — a distressed looking stuffed bunny with an ear missing. You glance over your shoulder again and it hits Joel. You’re nervous, in a rush. You’re here without anyone’s knowledge, that same look of panic in your eye as a teenager sneaking out of their window. “Just- I don’t want to sit around doing nothing. I want to find Otis.”

Talking is limited.

Instead, what fills its place is the sound of crunching leaves beneath heavy boots, and birds cawing and cooing in the trees above, and your incessant need to hum along to some melody playing in your head, distracting Joel to a dangerous degree.

This distraction leads to a close encounter, one where it’s only your swallowed scream as you stumble closer to him in fear, body seeking out some form of protection — he can’t tell if you view him as a mere shield or a sworn knight prepared to draw his weapons and, frankly, he winds up too caught up in your hands grabbing at his sides and your shaken figure melting against his own to care — that clears the haze in his eyes and sets his sights straight, gun drawn and aimed directly at the infected creature running towards you both.

He misses his first shot — shaky hands, one he partially blames on your proximity and the adrenaline it brings — but makes up for it in his second one, shooting point blank range and sending the creature crumbling to the ground, a bullet-hole in its forehead.

You both wait a few minutes, listening out for anymore rustling, before Joel deems things safe enough to continue and motions you with his head to follow.

From then on, you stick closer, alternating between walking a step or two ahead or behind him. He keeps a grip on the gun, unwilling to reholster it, and wordlessly hands you a shiv he has, ignoring the way you seem to perfectly curl your fingers around the weapon and practise a swinging motion, stabbing at the air with a deadly confidence Joel's never imagined to associate you with.

It forces him to rethink everything he’s come to believe about you over the years, and requestion just how exactly you’d wound up under Bill’s roof.

You interrupt his thoughts, the first to speak as always.

“If you don’t mind me asking-”

“I do.”

Undeterred, you smile and push through with your probing. “Who taught you to shoot?”

“My old man,” it takes him a few minutes to gruff it out. Or maybe it’s a bit longer than a few minutes, the sun’s shine seeming a lot less dim from when you’d asked. You say nothing, however, don’t even gasp in surprise at his eventual answering. “Dragged me out back to where he’d tied up our dog, poor thing had been sick for a while. Told me we weren’t goin’ back in till I shot it. Must’a stood there for hours.”

And that was that.

As much as Joel had felt you wanting to say more, you’d dropped the subject — maybe you’d noticed the dullness in his voice or the way his grip on his gun had tightened — and he’d never been more grateful for your ability to read him, without him even needing to open his pages for you.

You make camp by nightfall.

A clearing amongst the wooden areas, small enough to keep you hidden yet big enough to stretch out your legs. you ask for a campfire, and Joel denies you of it. ‘S too risky, he’d explained the instant he caught you deflating his objection. Don’t need no smoke signals bringing us any unwanted visitors.

He’d given you the coat off his back instead, a token to heat yourself up with as the pair of you quietly ate away at the tin-can meal Joel had been saving for the journey back to the QZ.

Chef Boyardee has never tasted better, however, after watching you place the can up to your lips and tilt your head back, swallowing down the artificial flavouring.

You don’t seem to agree, grimacing at the taste. “I don’t know how you can eat that.”

“If you think that’s bad, you don’t wanna know what they’re feedin’ us in the QZ.” It’s a privilege you’ll never understand, this sheltered life you lead among Bill’s traps and fences. You eat fresh eggs, and cook red meat, and nurture food out of the ground, while Joel fights tooth and nail to scrape up some measly ration cards. Oddly enough, he's not angry at your lack of understanding. He’s glad, happy you have a quality of life far better than his own.

“I'm surprised they feed you at all,” for all your grimacing, you’ve yet to stop taking mouthful after mouthful of the canned food. You must not have eaten much out on your run, Joel concludes. “Considering you eat Bill out of his whole stock each time you visit.”

He wants to defend himself, tell you it’s not true. Tell you it’s only the food prepared by your gentle hands and caring soul that he devours, in chase of satisfying another hunger he should not dare place upon you. That it is nothing more than Joel settling for a piece of your love, hoping that if he takes enough bites and chews enough times, it’ll seep into his skin, his bones, his bloodstream. It’s the only way he figures he can hold a piece of your heart next to his, until it stops beating.

But that is a burden a man like him does not place on a woman like you, so he bites his tongue and swallows down the rest of his dinner.

“The hell are we, middle-schoolers?”

A squawk of birds fly from their perch in the trees above, spooked by the unexpected boom of Joel’s voice. It’s an accident, flying out of him before he can really stop it and consider the dangers of loudly proclaiming your whereabouts to anything — living or dead — within a ten mile radius to hear. But you’re being ridiculous.

Your suggestion is ridiculous.

And you’re shushing him, a giggle behind the index finger you press to your lips, eyes shooting up to where the birds have fled, catching the reflection of the stars in your pupils and knocking the wind out of his chest, momentarily, with how bright they seem to shine.

“No, we’re two adults about to engage in a serious game of 21 Questions,” you speak like you live: much softer than Joel. No creature seems to hurry away at the sound of it and, in the fading memories he possesses, he can almost picture your voice drawing in all the critters of the forest, like that Disney princess she’d loved so much. “And that counts as one of your questions, by the way."

He has no plans on entertaining your childish play. He’ll sit there, he’ll watch out for any suspicious shadow lurking about in the dark, he’ll listen to whatever ridiculous questions you throw at him, and he’ll let you talk yourself silly, going in circles as he remains mute, and observant, and completely unwilling to answer to any of your-

“Which means,” you drag out the word, a sing-songy melody to your voice. “It’s my turn to ask you something, mister.” Mister. A warmth blooms in the pits of his stomach, one that threatens to creep lower, beneath the waistband of his blood-stained jeans. “What’s your favourite colour?”

If looks could kill, you’d likely still be alive.

Perhaps a little bruised, but it’s the worst stare Joel can will himself to pin you with. No doubt, it feels more threatening to you that it truly is, splashed across his stoic face.

“What?” You question, and somehow have the nerve to laugh. “It’s like… The most common question people ask in this game. That, or who took your virginity, and I really don’t think you want to tell me-”

“I’d just gotten my first job as a pool-boy. Pay was shit, but it covered my gas and left me enough to buy a six pack and a tub of wings,” the words fly out of him with an ease they never have before. Somehow, this feels easier, less intimate than matters like his favourite colour. When he thinks that answer is enough, he finds your face, expectations written across it. You’re waiting to know more. “I ended up with a few shifts working for one of our neighbours. She was a friend of my mom’s, recently divorced, and with a whole new body she’d bought with the divorce settlements.”

A spark of amusement flares in your eyes, that pretty smile stretching over your lips. He purses his own, trying not to think of pressing them against your mouth. You’d still taste of the canned food you — reluctantly — devoured and, somehow, the thought messes his head up even more, the potential taste of the food, of the care he had been the one to provide you with.

“That sounds like the beginning to a really bad porno,” you muse. Joel watches how you sit up a little straighter, legs tucking themselves up against your chest, chin resting atop your knees, arms engulfing yourself in their warmth, nose turning to take a quick inhale of his coat. He hopes he’ll smell you on it, too, next time he does the same.

“Surprised you even know what that word means,” he regrets it the moment he says it, that sickening reminder of your youth against his own ageing disgrace. He doesn’t know the exact years, but he know the difference would surely be enough to disgust a younger version of himself, the young father who once scowled at the sight of grey-haired men trailing their eyes down the bodies of wide-eyed girls, giggling by the bar as they flashed their fake-ids and sipped their first taste of — horrifically overpriced — alcohol.

“Porno?” You cut through his train of thoughts, unknowingly saving him from the downward spiral into memories best left behind, before the world went to shit. “You’d be surprised what a little bit of courage and a whole load of ration cards gets you past FEDRA.”

That word, that name, that organisation, it sets off an alarm in Joel’s brain, red-alert and siren sounding. And it pulls forth a question, echoing in the woods before he even realises he’s speaking his thoughts aloud.

“You were in a QZ? You weren’t always with Bill?”

“Pittsburg QZ, if you want to get technical. And then Hartford. No, I wasn’t always with Bill.” He tries to picture it: you, confined to the horrors of city living, bargaining things for survival, facing the harshness of the power-tripping FEDRA officers. The thought proves too disconcerting, so out of line with the you who exists only within the confines of safety and comfort in his mind, that Joel has to stop himself from imagining more, imagining worse. You and pain do not, should not ever exist in the same space, not if Joel can do anything about it. “And those count as two separate questions, so now I get to do the same.”

He hadn’t even meant to play into it, entertain your silly game. He’d just needed reassurance, answers, to know no scars litter your skin and no wound has fractured your psyche. But you’ve given him none of that. No comfort for his ailing soul, more questions for his troubled mind.

“Was it a one time thing,” unaware, or simply desensitised to his ways, you continue on with your questions, despite the frown he feels wrinkling at his forehead. “With your neighbour?” He’s glad to see you bring the conversation back to his own debauchery.

“No.”

“Ooh, scandalous! Joel Miller, local pool-boy turned toy-boy.” If he wasn’t so busy fighting off images of you, young and scared, standing before armed FEDRA soldiers, Joel might have found it in him to crack a half smile at the amusement the sexual endeavours of his youth seem to gift you. “Did you fuck any other of your clientele, or were you and Miss Recent-Divorcee exclusive?”

“No,” he says once more, then quickly clarifies. “I didn’t sleep with other clients. But also no, we weren’t exclusive.”

“Did your mom-”

“‘S my turn, darlin’,” Joel surprises even himself, cutting in before you can sneak a third question his way. It’s like it finally hits him, the way this game has handed him the opportunity of a lifetime to learn the answer to any question he’s ever pondered over you. But all other questions, topics, seem to slip out his conscience’s grasp, like sand slipping through fingers, as he feels himself dragged further into the fear you’ve awoke within him, a fresh layer of worry he now holds for a version of you he’d never known, a version of you he can barely stomach the idea of. “How did you meet Bill? Were you with Frank before?”

“God, you’re bad at this game! Two questions, again!” And, yet, you say it with more humour than chastisement. You turn your face, again, nose bumping against the collar of his jacket. “But no, I wasn’t with Frank. I met them both at the same time, after I spotted them through their fences. I passed out, dehydrated, and I probably wouldn’t have been brought in if it weren’t for Frank insisting they couldn’t just leave me out there to die.”

“You were alo-”

“Ah, my turn!” Your hand shoots out, index finger pointing across the space between you both. “Did your mum ever find out about you and her friend?”

“No, it ended before that could happen. She got herself a man her own age, and I…” Got someone pregnant. The words stick to his throat, refusing to come out.

Reading his closed off pages, like you always do, your voice cuts through the air before he can let himself slip too deep into the sorrow.

“I was alone, when I met Bill and Frank. But I wasn’t always.” Those four words are enough to make him ache. But I wasn’t always. Who had you lost? How long did they survive? Did you feel their blood on your skin? The questions fly by so quickly, he’s struggling to pin-point which one he wants to ask first, which ones he’s allowed to ask. “Have you ever been in love?”

That quiets his mind. For a moment, it’s a welcomed incident. Then his heartbeat fills his ears, and it’s pounding, skipping over beats of its own rhythm, threatening to spread too much of that fear, too quickly to every vessel under his skin, that Joel has no choice, he has to give you an answer he doesn’t want to, just to save himself from the impending tightness in his chest.

“Green,” the words are a struggle to get out but he manages it, watching the confusions bleed into your soft eyes. “I never answered. Before. When you asked my favourite colour. It’s green.” If you find his answer to be too late, or you’re disappointed at his clear avoidance towards your latest question, you don’t give it away. You just nod, smile softly, and wait for him to take his turn. “Why were you alone?”

“Everyone changed, got bit, or died. I didn’t want to be next.” Perhaps he’s a fool. Perhaps he underestimated the resilience you keep under warm sweaters and easy-going smiles. Because you sit there, not a tear welling in sight, and talk about the things you’ve lost like they don’t haunt you. Like you haven’t spent every waking moment since trying to find them, evidence that they were real, and that they’d mattered, and that they’d loved you. Like you haven’t drowned in grief, the way he has. You’ve swam, instead, against the current, crawled to the safety of shore. “Who’s your butterfly?”

The question catches him so off guard, so out of left field, so completely and utterly nonsensical, that he just can’t help himself. “My what now?”

"You know, the whole ‘if a butterfly flaps its wings’,” you trail off, hands curling tighter around yourself after performing air quotes. “Who's one person that changed the trajectory of your life?"

He cannot run.

He cannot repeat his earlier trick, deflecting with the answer to a previously spoken — and visibly ignored — question. Because, no matter which of your two questions he chooses to focus on, the answer remains the same. That little girl, with a smile like sunshine, sitting at the breakfast table, egg yolk on her cheek, ketchup all over her tiny, chubby, little fingers, an incoherent babble of excited squeals as he, once again, drives the choo-choo train — in truth, a fork-ful of food — towards her lips.

You’ve got him backed into a corner, no out, no escape. His mind, a cruel torturer that takes advantage of his own panic, thrusts yet another memory into the VHS of his mind, broadcasting it against the back of his eyelids, forcing him to see the granny pictures every time he blinks. Her first step. Her first day at school. Her first time trying a sip of his beer and absolutely hating it. Her. Her.

Suddenly, he’s angry. The only response he ever seems to conjure at the memory of her.

“‘S this what this whole things all about, huh?” It’s snarky, it’s cruel, and it's punctuated by a scoff. The fact you don’t even react, face unchanging beneath the shine of the moon, only seems to make him angrier, outrage for the fact you’re letting him speak to you like this, fury for allowing himself. “You want me to tell you somethin’ traumatic, somethin’ for you to pity me over? And then what, you gonna give me your own little sob story so we can have ourselves a lil’ pity party? Newshflash, princess, you ain’t special just cause your mama died and your daddy never wanted you.”

“Are you done?” You speak only after a silence has permeated the space between you for a few minutes, nothing but Joel’s laboured breaths filling the night air.

He’s not even sure when he started breathing so heavily. His heart is still working itself into a frenzy, his mind still off the rails. The eire calm that remains over your face seems to bring him momentary respite from the pain, if only to feel himself bracing for a new wave, a worse wave. One born from you. From your pain. And one that Joel’s entirely unprepared, and undeserving, to have wash over him.

"I didn't really notice it at first, you know?” You speak so softly, he almost doesn’t hear you. But he does, and it hurts. “Hell, it wasn't even really me that realised. Bill did. I’d only been staying with them three nights, just until I got back on my feet. Back then, he used to barricade my door at night, and he wouldn’t let me eat at the same table as them both, not even when Frank insisted. But, suddenly, Bill flipped the switch on me. He became apologetic, careful, asking me if I was feeling okay and actually sounding… interested in the answer.”

Much like the thought of you in a quarantine zone, the thought of Bill being anything but utterly protective and completely trusting of you does not seem plausible in Joel’s mind, no matter how much he believes you. The image, simply, will not conjure in his mind, too out of shape with the current reality he’s witnessed.

You continue talking after a pause for composure, those eyes that trap him so easily now frozen to the ground, staring at some smudge of mud on your boots.

“Frank was the first one to actually say it out loud, to ask me if I... Anyway, it was hard to tell but we all agreed, eventually, that I had to be around three or four months along. It made sense, timewise. There were some raiders, they found my camp a few weeks before I collapsed outside Bill’s gate. I… I don't even really know which one of them sealed the deal. All I know is all of them were on me, and none of them cared about how hard I could kick.”

He almost calls you by your name, then by the name he’s given you. Sol. But it’s too pretty a word, too undeserving of being tainted by the anger he feels coursing through his veins, a bloodlust like no other making home for itself in his loins.

“I didn't really care that much about it, as horrible as that makes me sound.” It doesn’t make you sound horrible, at all. Joel could show you horrible, if you just gave him a few faces and the permission to do with them, punish them as he pleased. “It was just a means to an end. A deal to keep myself safe. They'd let me live under their roof, and I'd give them the baby. We never… discussed what would happen to me, once I held up my end of the bargain. Never got the chance to, really.”

And suddenly, Joel Miller is the greatest asshole to ever walk the planet.

Not only the greatest asshole, but a hypocrite, too. You ain’t special. Well, neither is he, moping around life with a chip on his shoulder and baggage the weight of a dead daughter. He isn’t the first parent to outlive a child, to lose a child, and he won’t be the last. He’ll just be another name on the list, another poor soul.

The hoot of an owl. It’s somehow a reminder that you’re both out, huddled in the privacy of a few trees, waiting for night to pass and the search to continue.

Those tears in your eyes still haven’t fallen. My brave girl. But it feels condescending, and wrong. Not because you’re not brave. Because you’re not his girl. You’re the sun, and he’s just another planet that’s been sucked into your orbit. Dense, unfeeling, and miles away, forever circling you.

“One minute, it's just a burden weighing down on my whole body,” your voice is so soft, it’s almost a whisper. Perhaps he’ll be the one who cries. It sure feels like it, if he has to continue watching you fidget with your fingers and look anywhere but him. “And the next minute, it's screaming torture and the heartbreak of holding her barely-there body in my arms. That guilt... of not even knowing how much I wanted her until I got the chance ripped away, that’s something that never really goes away. It lingers, it changes you, forever."

God, does it linger.

He’s tried to lose track. He’s tried to make himself forget the years that have gone by, all in the hopes of getting through that September day, completely unaware of it. But he can’t.

Just like how he can’t think of what to say right now.

He knows he should comfort you.

He thinks he should tell you his own story, his own loss. Let you know that the grief you feel is not a lonesome one. But then he’d be worse than a hypocrite. He would be a liar, and that’s one thing he’s getting tired of being, especially when it comes to you.

“What,” he pulls in a deep breath, eyes flickering off you for a moment to watch figures that move in the distance. Tree branches, swaying in the wind. The temperatures are dropping even more, and he’s got no other layers to keep you warm with. “What were you gonna name her?”

You’re gracious enough to utter a name, softly, and finally your eyes flicker up from the ground and meet his own. The tiniest of smiles tugging at the corners of your mouth, the moon casting shadows down your face. You pull in a breath and stutter on its exhale, clearing your throat as if that’s enough to regain your composure.

“That’s her name. We buried her out back, under one of Frank’s flowerbeds,” there’s a sickening kind of envy that coils itself around his chest. Even if it visibly hurts, you��re talking about her, you’re honouring her enough to share something about her existence. Joel can’t do the same for his girl, a pain too harrowing, and, once more, he reminds himself that he’s the greatest asshole alive. “It’s silly but… I like to think it’s her whenever the snowdrops bloom.”

“'S a nice name," he’s a pathetic excuse of a man, no courage to pull you close and tell you it’s okay. Tell you he’s sorry, for your loss and for his earlier harsh words. Tell you about his own daughter. Would you think he’s trying to outshine you in the pity party, if he told you he doesn’t get to see what life blooms from atop his daughter’s grave?

"It was my mom's,” you snort over an unexpected laugh, as if you can’t believe you’re admitting this to him. Or maybe it’s not that. Maybe it’s a sense of relief, a lightness coming over a heart previously weighed down by grief. If he could do that for you, even if just slightly, he’d feel as though the tears shining in your eyes are worth it. “She'd have hated to see me use it, she was never a fan of it, but I couldn't think of a better name for someone I love so much."

Something awful hits him, square in the jaw and deep in the gut.

He can’t remember why he called her Sarah.

You’re sleeping next to him.

He’s spent the better half of what feels like an hour trying to ignore this fact. Stared at the sky, just to count each freckled star that shines through in the dark. Closed his eyes and tried counting sheep. Rolled over, back facing you, and tried to just fall asleep, once and for all.

But it’s sisyphus. Each time he feels himself about to slip into the discomfort of sleep, you twitch a leg or mumble something incoherent, and he’s back to being far too aware of you, squeezed in beside him in what must be the world’s least spacious sleeping bag. The worst thing is, it had all been his idea.

You’d been yawning, eyes slipping shut just to be opened in defiance by your own stubborn self, unwilling to give into the sleep you so visibly needed. He’d told you to go to sleep, the words coming out soft for once yet, somehow, still a demand. When you nodded in agreement instead of standing your ground, Joel knew you must have been exhausted.

You told him that you hadn’t imagined the search would last overnight, that you hadn’t grabbed a single thing to sleep with. Not even a blanket. Which was fine, really, because Joel had no intention of closing his eyes. He’d rolled out his sleeping bag and told you to take it, he didn’t mind. It would be one more thing of his that smells like you.

But you wouldn’t stop tossing and turning. Restless, cold, and completely distracting to Joel as he tried to will himself to focus on what was important, any approaching threat, and not the shape of you wrapped in his belongings. A fruitless endeavour, that earns him nothing but a string of words rolling off his tongue: “Move over.”

And now he’s here, regretting ever thinking he could possibly lay next to you, exchange body heat, and somehow just will himself to fall asleep.

You squirm, hand fisting at the well-used material of his sleep roll. Laying on his back, he glances over at you. The itch to snake his arm beneath your head, offer a makeshift pillow to spare you from the hard floor, grows harder to ignore the more he looks at you.

It’s not the only thing that grows harder, however.

Maybe it’s because he can smell you, all over and around him, staining your memory into the fabric of the sleeping bag so he can lament how empty it feels the next time he sleeps it in. Maybe it's because he can feel you, scattered points where the heel of your foot rests against the slope of his ankle, and the swell of your ass presses into his upper thigh, and your back brushes against his arm with every slow breath you take. Maybe it's all more simple than that, like the mere knowledge that you’re actually here, in his presence, after so many months, and Joel Miller is just a man, susceptible to the pleasures of flesh and starved of you.

Whatever the reason is ultimately doesn’t matter. Lamenting over it won’t change the stiffness of his cock as it fights beneath denim confines, an uncomfortable throb that demands his attention. And he’s trying so hard to resist, trying so hard to pretend he’s not aware of his own body and the erection it’s bestowed upon him.

But you won’t stop moving, you won’t lay still. Deep in sleep, you taunt him, unawares to the way each soft sigh sends his mind barreling down into the depths of sinful thoughts, and each wriggle, squirm, repositioning of your hips serves no purpose other than to push you closer to him, deeper against the straining fabric.

He flirts with the idea of unbuckling his belt. It would be easy, his hand already resting stiff by his side, itching to shove down layers and feel the weight of his own cock. It barely even makes a sound, a soft clink muffled beneath the blanket, followed by the pop of a button, and the zing of a zipper sliding down. He glances at you, heart rate picking up, and confirms you’re just the same as moments ago: fast asleep.

As much as he wants to peel off his layers completely, he settles for the safer option of pulling down his jeans and briefs enough to free himself, full fist wrapping itself around his base. A swift tug, a tight-jawed hiss. The thrill of it runs right up his spine, a torture that he wants another taste of.

He wants to snake his hand up to his mouth and wet the palm with his spit, but he can’t, won’t, the risk of too much movement waking you. So he settles into his fate, a series of uncomfortably dry and unfluid strokes of his cock, nothing but the drops of his own precum to lubricate his movements.

Slow, steady, he runs his palm over his length in sync with your breathing. Your lungs expands, his fingers brush the tip, they deflate and he’s down at the base, trying hard not to brush against his heavy balls. Images of you, the same ones he plays on repeat when he’s working himself to an orgasm in the safety of his and Tess’ apartment, or balls-deep in some faceless stranger, hidden in the darkness of some back alley. Breathless in the kitchen, gripping a knife like your mind grips at its sanity as he bruises his knees from drinking between your thighs. Perched atop his lap, the metal of the truck’s hood creaking with each bounce you give, fuckin yourself further down his length, forcing him deeper and deeper.

His eyes slip shut as he lets the memories take over, replaying for his own viewing pleasure. He tries to match the tightness of his hand to the tightness of your cunt, but his own touch is cold, unfeeling, dry, nothing like the sweetness of you. The version of you that lives in his mind throws her head back lips parted in a cry of pleasure. Joel, she — you — moans, gripping him tighter, pert nipples straining through the thin fabric of a shirt. His shirt. God, you looked so good, so safe in his coat, he should’ve stripped you down to nothing but it, and taken you there against the dirty woodland floor, on all fours, ass in the air, face in the dirt, Joel all over you.

Joel, he can hear it, the way you’d sink down fully to the floor, forcing him to follow you, smother you in his whole weight, hips tilted up enough for him to keep drilling himself deeper, and deeper, and deeper.

“Joel,” he hears you. Real you, turning towards him in the tight squeeze of the sleeping bag. Sleepy eyes meet his own and he sees it, the recognition. You know what he’s doing beneath the surface of the sleeping bag. Before he can fully register this, the touch of another hand — far more delicate — envelopes his own, tightening his grip before he can dare to retreat. “You should be asleep.”

“Can’t,” he grits out, powerless to the sudden movement of your hand, the slow drag in which you guide him to jerk at his cock.

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

“I do,” you admit with a soft shrug, eyes glued to his own. “Still, I wanna hear you say it.”

One glance down and he sees the way you touch him beneath the blanket, wishing he could rip it all away and watch your fingers, intertwining with his own, smother over his leaking tip, staining your skin in his pleasure.

It’s embarrassing how much of a mess he’s becoming, all at the mercy of little old you, and your sparkly eyes, and your sleepy smile, and your guiding hands. It’s embarrassing how softly the confession parts from his lips.

“Because of you.”

“Me?” You question immediately, feigned innocence striked across those tired, doe-like eyes he likes so much. “All I’ve done is try to sleep. You’re the one who can’t keep his hands from wandering. Are you really that weak Joel?”

“Yes.”

“Do I make you weak?”

“Yes, fuck!” He feels like he’s gone back in time and you’re playing with him, twenty-something questions or whatever the fuck you’d called it. Feeling his balls tighten, an urgency to touch you, feel you, make you feel good takes hold of him. “I’m gonna- Ahh, baby, let me- Let me feel you.”

But you won’t let him. Tightening your hand around his cock, continuing those up and down motions, inching him closer and closer to the orgasm he’s trying so hard to stave off.

“No, I’m too tired,” even your little whine is enough to drive him mad, a sigh out your nose as he watches you snuggle into the width of his chest, a throbbing pain taking over his heart. How can you seem so sweet with your fingers sitting tight around his cock? “Let's just lay like this, feel me like this. Let me make you feel good.”

“Tell me you’re wet,” it becomes a need, a desperation, born in his heart and spreading all throughout the rest of him, to know you’re enjoying this torture as much as he is. To know you’re not simply touching him as a means to get him off, over and done with, mind silenced to sleep by the haziness of spilling his cum.

“I am,” you soothe his minor fear, and he feels the gentle roll of your hips into his thigh, leg tangled between both of his as you grind your clothed cunt against him. “So wet. Love touching you, Joel.”

“Yeah?” He croons back, voice teetering off into literal begging, his free hand perched on the tip of your chin and tilting your eyes up to meet his. “Then let me fuck you, please.”

“No, just…” You say, shaking your head, rolling your hips, teasing at the slit in his tip with the tip of your finger. He can’t help but hiss, a grunt catching in his throat. “Just wanna focus on you. Wanna see you cum for me, Joel.”

Never have seven words been enough to make his resolve snap.

With a pathetic cry of your name, Joel feels the first rope of cum spray against his knuckles. Sticky, hot, thick, it dribbles down the cracks of his fingers onto your own, making a mess out of both of you. You’re there, closed palm, sweet lips, soothing him with words of kindness as you carry him through the motions of his orgasm, no doubt working your wrist into a dull ache as you squeeze every last drop of cum out of his weeping tip. He doesn’t want to think of the mess that awaits him beneath the sleeping bag, sticky cum staining soft skin, and rough jeans, and nylon material.

What he wants is for you to keep going, stroke him until his cock regains its full stiffness, standing to attention and ready to feel you in the ways he’d pleaded moments earlier, like he felt you months earlier.

Maybe this time he’d try your other hole. He’s wondered, on lonely nights where nothing but his hand has kept him company, how much convincing it would take until you’d bend over and present him with the pretty little creases of your puckered hole. You’d protest, he knows. call him disgusting, degenerate, dirty. Shame him for even wishing to touch you in such a vile manner. Joel could handle it. He’d always had a preference for the chase, the thrill of wearing a pretty thing down off its high horse of holier-than-thou syndrome and onto their knees before him.

He’d not be kind. No, not when the time comes. He’d ease himself in, sure, but the true battle would begin once he’s sheathed inside and the tightness of your hole hugs his cock in the warmest of embraces. He’d push, and pull, and break you down into whatever surface he takes you against. His hands would join in, bringing an electrified pleasure to your neglected cunt while his hips piston into the plumpness of your cheeks. They’d move in sync, working to ensure no second passes where you’re not full of some part of him - be it his cock in your ass or his fingers in your cunt.

Exhausted and defiled, your poor body would have nowhere else to run than to the comfort of his embrace and the sweet serenity of peaceful sleep, once he’s through with you. And, should you wake to cry of a newfound pain in your rear, Joel would waste no time in snaking his way down between your legs to mouth at your cum-stained hole, laving his tongue over you and painting your thighs in apologetic kisses until you can no longer speak of pain, his name the only word you’ll ever need to know.

But, alas, time is catching up on him and the blood refuses to return to his cock.

Exhaustion wraps you both in its blanketing warmth, melting your head down against his chest with ease, hands still missing somewhere between his thighs. Every soft breath that leaves you hits the skin of his neck, a physical, timely reminder that you’re there, in his arms, closer than you’ve ever been.

The thought is frightening, enough to get his heart racing in his chest. He can only assume you hear it, feel it beating against your ear.

“I’m sorry, Joel,” you whisper, just when he feels himself teetering towards the edge of sleep.

“Hmm?” He hums back in lieu of a verbal response, eyes he’d not even notice close peering open to look down at you.

“I didn’t mean- I wasn’t trying to make you angrier with the questions.” Angrier. That word leaves a sour taste in Joel’s mouth. “It’s just… You’re a good man. You care about others. About Tess, and Bill, Frank too. About me. But you have this chip on your shoulder… I just wanted to try to understand you better, I wanted to make you feel better.”

With your soft voice echoing in his head, he feels himself sinking into a dreamless sleep, a reply caught on the tip of his tongue.

Something wet wakes Joel.

It’s a slow return from the land of sleep, the longest that it’s taken him in years to go from peacefully resting to wide-eyed and alert to every surrounding. The first thing he registers is how warm everything feels, how cosy. How much he enjoys the weight of something in his arms, breathing softly into his chest.

Then, that something wet itches at his skin, drags across his cheek. He tries to open his eyes, only to hiss and squeeze them shut, the bright burn of the morning sun nearly blinding him. A few birds sing from the trees above, exchanging their good-mornings with the rest of nature’s critters.

A groan comes from his left, muffled against the flannel of his wrinkled shirt. He readjusts himself, pulling the weight even closer, and finds out he was right: your smell already lingers in his sleeping-bag. A third lick of wet, this one from chin to eyebrow, a cringe overcomes his tired face.

Lick.

His eyes snap open, fight against the burning of the light, and there he sees him. Otis, to the right, mouth panting, tongue dangling out his mouth, tail wagging somewhere in the background. Joel tries to move as slowly as possible, fearful of spooking the dog, and even more fearful of spooking you, eyes still shut and hand nestled atop his groin, fingers tangled in coarse hair and poking beneath the layers of his top.

“Sunshine,” he whispers, shaking gently at your shoulder, and nearly apologising as you crack an eye open and pin him with a deadly stare. You’re not much of a morning person, a fact Joel fools himself into thinking he’ll need to remember for the future. He gives your shoulder another shake, a gentle squeeze too, for extra measure. “C’mon now, gotta open those eyes properly for me. Got someone here who’s mighty excited to see you.”

That seems to entice you, eyes peering fully open and giving him a once-over before mumbling a soft, “what’re you talking abo- My baby-boy!”

No sooner than you’ve shot up straight, arms wide and reaching for the furry creature, Otis has bounded over, trampling over the mess of limbs you and Joel make up beneath the nylon. Pathetic whines fill the air, a tail that moves a hundred miles an hour, as the canine smothers his snout into you, his luscious mane shining beneath the sun’s rays.

You’re pressing kisses against the dog, tears brimming your eyes as you wrap your arms around his neck and tell him, over and over, “don’t ever do that again! I was so scared!” The happiness is contagious, spreading with a small smile upon Joel’s lips as he peels himself off the floor, chest pressing into your back and hand stretching out over your shoulder, fingers tangling in the threads of Otis’ soft fur.

“Must’a caught scent of you, followed it all the way till it brought him to us,” Joel musses, feeling you laugh as the dog licks a kiss over your cheek. “He’s a good boy. Aren’t’cha, boy?”

Neither of you mention the sticky dilemma between Joel’s thighs as you pack up. You roll up the sleeping bag while he wipes himself clean with a dirty shirt, quietly passing it your way as he slips off his belt and loops it around Otis’ collar, becoming a makeshift lead to guide the dog home with.

Though, as the four-legged creature sniffs on ahead, with the occasional pull that tests Joel’s grip on the belt, he almost seems to need no guide, leading you all in the direction of home. Your home, not Joel’s. But, what a wonderful thought that would be, if he were just a man, and you were just a woman, and you were both taking an early morning walk around the woods with your dog, catching the first rays of sun, together.

As if hearing his thoughts, Otis turns his head, looking at Joel over his shoulder, tail wagging as he lets out an excited bark. Up ahead, closer than he’d like it to be, stands the borders to Bill’s sanctuary. Up ahead, sooner than he’d like it to be, the place where you’ll part ways.

He finds himself slowing his pace. You do the same, no question, happy to simply have your fur-friend safe, by your side, the occasional brush of his snout against your upper thigh, searching for the affectionate stroke of your hand.

He needs to speak soon, act now, before it’s too late and the chance slips through his fingers. Joel clears his throat.

“My, uh,” a lump catches the words as they try to leave him. He swallows it down in a gulp, and tries again. “My daughter.”

Your face turns so quickly from the trail ahead to Joel, that he swears he hears a snap of something in your neck. Silence settles in like fog, mist on the horizon, a pause pregnant with so many questions he can see running through your pupils. You don’t speak them, however, and it strangely eases his nerves, taking away the feeling of demand to reveal his pain, leaving him to peel off the band-aid at his own pace.

“She was my… Whatever you called it, last night.” He sees you nod along, in the corner of his eye. You’ve both slowed to a mere shuffle, unaware of the three figures manifesting ahead, crowding on the other side of the fences. “The one that changed my life. She was so… bright, I used to worry one day she’d blind someone with her smile.”

In his memories, she’s always a beacon of light. Shining, even in darkness. Joel’s almost convinced glitter, or starlight must have been weaved into her skin, her eyes, her smile.

“She was everything good about me,” he says, and finds he can’t help the small laugh that claws its way up his throat, scratching as it goes. “None of the bad.”

“Can’t imagine there’s much on that list.”

“I know, ‘s hard to believe there’s even one good thing about m-”

“No, Joel,” he swears he feels his heart still at how you say his name, firm, and with conviction, like you’re trying to drill the sound into his head, remind him that he has a name, has a heart. “The bad, it must be a short list.”

Three of you — man, woman, dog — find another similar trio waiting by an open gate. Frank, Tess, Bill, each more relieved than the last to see Otis nearly pulling Joel’s feet from under him as the animal surges forward, pulling against the belt-lead with all his might. You release both man and dog from the tug of war, unbuckling the belt from the German Shepherd’s collar and freeing him to pounce on Bill who, despite the frown embedded in his forehead at the dog’s incessant licking, claps a hand over its back.

Joel feels a hand clap down on his own back, snaking its way up to squeeze at his shoulder.

"C'mon, Texas,” Tess proclaims loud enough for all eyes to fall on them. Yours included, kind and questioning, making him wish he could stay. “We're gonna be in shit if we're not back by sundown."

Bag already on his shoulder, Joel can’t feign a reason to linger a little longer.

“Wait!” You call out, parting from Frank’s side, fingers scratching at Otis’ head as you pass. Without warning, you throw yourself at Joel, arms wrapping around him and holding him close in the gentlest of embraces. “Thank you, Joel.” It’s just a whisper. He’s not even sure exactly what you’re thanking him for. Still, he lays a hand against your back and pulls you a little tighter, one last rush of your shampoo hitting his nose before you’re stepping back and parting ways. You, heading back into the safety of Bill’s gates, and Joel, walking off towards the desecrated city, back to the cold of his apartment.

When he wakes the next morning, beneath a roof and upon an uncomfortable couch, he feels time reset itself.

One day since he last seen you, who knows how many more days to go.

#joel miller smut #pedro pascal smut #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal x reader #joel miller series #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction #joel miller fic #pedro pascal fic

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feyhunter78 · 4 months ago

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Chapter Thirteen - It is the night to celebrate your dear friend, but the tensions with Jon only grow greater.

Note: This is the same day as the previous chapter

Ch 14

You have never seen a nameday so beautiful, the ones within King’s Landing are grand, opulent, but here in Highgarden, they are beautiful. The Great Hall is decorated with flowers, a feast the likes you have never seen set along the walls. The musicians are far more skilled than those in King’s Landing, and you find yourself enraptured by the fragrant blossoms surrounding you.

Margaery enters the hall on the arms of Tommen and Loras, Robb’s necklace in place, his ring on her finger, her gown is a thing of beauty, silk, and gossamer fabrics, delicate but vivid embroidery. Her hair is twisted up in an intricate style, her crown set between two strands of hair left down to frame her face, she shines in the dying sunlight, the sky behind her ablaze with pinks, red, oranges, and golds.

She and Tommen start the first dance, with those around them cheering to her health and the health of their marriage.

You have not yet seen Jon, and you are unsure whether you want to or not. He has been distant, holding you at length, avoiding you when he can. In the last few moons, you feel you have spent less time with him than you have the entire time you have known each other, and it is…strange. The distance hurts, he is your closest companion, your friend, your soon-to-be betrothed, your sworn shield, he has been by your side since you were five and ten. But now, now he is virtually a stranger to you. Not fully one, as there are still moments, times, when his eyes soften as he looks at you. When he carries you to your chambers because you drank too much with Margaery, when you learned he slept outside the door to your room when your travel party stopped at inns along the Roseroad.

It is those moments of warmth that worsen your pain. It would be preferable if he were to close himself off completely, act as the Kingsguard does, instead of this back and forth. Then in time, you would be able to bury your feelings deep enough that they would no longer be a sharp, piercing pain but a dull throbbing ache that could be ignored. That would be swept over like the ocean waves sweep over the sand.

Jon claimed his distance was because he was busy. That he was devoting himself further to his swordsmanship, that he needed to act with greater care and propriety in order to not draw suspicion upon you both. Yes, his reasons could be seen as understandable, but no one has ever truly cared. Since you were both young you have acted in a companiable and familiar manner, but now with the way he is acting, people are far more suspicious than they were before. How he does not see this you cannot understand. You know he is not an idiot but, it seems there are still ways of the court he has not learned.

You wrap your arms around yourself, feeling exposed without Jon at your side, perhaps he has grown tired of you? Your silk gown is a petal pink with silver embroidery, that cinches at your waist and dips low to display your décolletage. It is beautiful, but far more revealing, than you would normally choose to wear. Would Jon like it? He most likely would not even notice it, given how he avoids looking at you.

Your hair is loose and styled in waves, and your customary golden bangles have been swapped for ones of silver, a diamond necklace is draped around your neck. Small rubies gleam from their places below the diamonds hanging from strands of silver. It was a gift from your Uncle Robert, given to you on your first Maiden’s Day. The irony is not lost on you that your aunt would choose it for the day on which she is attempting to sell you out like a broodmare. Though you will not deny, it is one of your favorite pieces.

Finally, you spot Jon, and it feels as if someone has draped a warm blanket over you, no longer feeling so alone among the crowd of strangers. He is with your father, which is both strange and not so strange, but what is strange is that Jon wears no armor. Instead, he is dressed in his house colors, in finery you did not know he owned, his hair pulled back, his sword nowhere to be found, and he is wearing rings, well one ring, a signet ring.

“Father, Ser Jon, this is quite a surprise. Have I been tricked, and it is truly my nameday?” You try to jest, taking a step towards Jon, a force of habit you cannot break, reaching to run your fingers down the arm of Jon’s doublet. “You look so very handsome, my champion, is this new?”

He takes a step back, avoiding your touch, and it is a dagger though your heart. He has never rejected your touch before, truly he must have lost feelings for you, but when, and why? Has another slipped beneath your nose and taken him from you? How would it even be possible?

Your Aunt Cersei was right, there is no point to loving men, they will always disappoint you and when you love them it will only hurt you more.

The hurt must have shown on your face, your father reaches for you, but you shrug him off, avoiding both their eyes.

Fine, if Jon wishes to be distant, then so shall you. “The Dowager Queen has a list of suitors she would like me to dance with tonight, I am afraid I will not be able to spare a dance for either of you.”

“A pity, but I understand, do have fun, little lion.” Your father says, giving your hand a pat before heading off towards the nearest feast table.

Jon remains in place, unable to meet your gaze. His boots are shiny, his strong shoulders, muscled arms, and broad chest displayed by the gray cloth that encompasses them. He is so very handsome, a marble statue, a god, an ancient warrior, a conqueror who takes what he desires.

Y/N now is not the time, you are angry with him, and he does not care for you. You internally chastise yourself, donning a mask of indifference.

“Well, are you going to return the compliment, or are you too busy to even speak to me?” You fully fail to sound unaffected by his actions.

“You look very nice, My Lady.” He says, in that same stilted tone that makes you want to scream.

You take a step closer, glaring up at him, unable to stop yourself. “Why are you speaking to me in this way, it is me, y/n, not some stranger.”

He sighs, and takes a step back from you, that same uninterested, stiff tone, drilling into your mind, past your walls of civility, hitting deep, triggering the tripwire of your insecurities and anxieties disguised as rage. “My Lady, it is not proper—”

“Shut up, shut up, I do not wish to hear from you until you stop acting like this.” You snap, anger boiling over in your chest. “Get out of my sight, Lord Snow.”

You turn away from him, blinking back angry tears, and search the hall for your aunt.

You have danced with an Algood, a Tarbeck, a Swyft, a Crakehall, a Blackmont, an Arryn, and Tommen to give yourself a break from the suitors. As well as a Hightower which your aunt quickly ushered you away from telling you he was a fourth son who had slid his way in, and not on her list. Now you dance with a Bracken.

Lord Hendry Bracken, who will be heir to House Bracken if his uncle does not have a son before he dies. He has light brown hair, ale-colored eyes, and a sweet smile. He is not necessarily charming, or overly handsome, but he seems kind and does not talk over you as the Blackmont man did.

“And then my cousin Bess chased me around the halls with a frog in her hand until her father caught us.” He says, laughing as he tells a story of his time growing up alongside his five female cousins.

You laugh as well, imagining a little Hendry running from a frog carried by his cousin, who was no more than a year older than him. “That is terrible, you poor thing.”

He shakes his head. “No, no, do not pity young me, after my uncle forced her to put the frog back outside, I ended up venturing into the gardens to ensure it had returned to its pond safe and sound.”

Your heart warms at his words. “That was quite sweet of you.”

He blushes and shrugs. “I have always felt compassion for those smaller and less able to defend themselves, especially when it comes to animals, they have no voices to speak with, so we must speak on their behalf.”

His sentiment makes you think of Ghost, of the way he and Jon communicate wordlessly.

“It is an admirable trait.” You say, giving him a radiant smile. You could not see yourself falling in love with Lord Hendry, but his kind words and humorous stories have lightened your heart, if only for tonight.

The song comes to an end, and you find yourself reluctant to leave him in favor of a new suitor.

“Perhaps we might exit the floor and refresh ourselves? Have you tried the wine in the golden glasses? The wine within is from a vineyard named for Queen Margaery, and it is perhaps the sweetest, most refreshing wine I have ever had the pleasure of tasting.” Hendry suggests, offering you his arm.

You take it with a grateful smile. “I have not, though the queen was telling me all about that very vineyard on our journey here.”

Hendry leads you over to the table and hands you a glass, you take a sip, about to speak when a flash of yellow and white catches your attention.

Jayne Westerling. You truly have no reason to dislike the girl; she is quiet, shy. Your Uncle Jaime described her as not a beauty worth losing a kingdom for, which you will admit you laughed at. But there is simply something about her that irks you. Something that sets you on edge, as if her sweetness is a farce covering a far more devious countenance.

You track her movements, your glass still at your lips, your grip on it tightening when you see her stop in front of Jon, your Jon, with two wine glasses in her hands. They have been talking, dancing, and spending time together. Is it her? Has she somehow stolen your champion?

“Lady Lannister, are you quite alright?” Hendry asks.

Jayne smiles, laughs, throws her hair over her shoulder flirtatiously, and you drain your glass then slam it down onto the table. “You must excuse me, My Lord, I have something I need to take care of.”

It is simple, find Margaery, have her direct you to her cousin who would anger Jon the most, and dance with him, as close to Jon and Jayne as possible.

The Tyrell man whose name you do not know, and do not care to learn, attempts to talk to you, but you are intent on listening to Jon and Jayne’s conversation.

There is more giggling, more flirting, and when you hear Jon compliment Jayne’s dress, telling her she looks like a flower maiden in summer, you turn to your dance partner.

“Do tell me about yourself, good sir, I am quite interested.” Your voice is not overly loud, but loud enough for Jon to hear, and it is dipped in honey, heated by the flames of desire, as near as you can fake them at least.

The Tyrell begins to blather on, and you laugh in all the right places, leaning in close, and letting him spin you in a way that nearly bumps you into Jayne.

When the song ends, you go up on your toes and whisper your thanks in his ear, letting your hands linger on his chest. You step back and giggle as you curtsy, agreeing to a second dance with him when Jon catches your wrist.

“My Lady, you are needed.” He says, his eyes steely as he leads you out of the Great Hall and down a side hallway.

The hallway is darker than the Great Hall, and it takes your eyes a moment to adjust. “Is it my father?” You ask, looking around, there is no one in sight.

“It is clear you cared not for the blathering on of that foul man, and yet you agreed to a second dance. Tell me, what game is it that you are playing, My Lady?” Jon demands, his eyes blazing, his hand still holding your wrist as he comes to a stop.

“How would you know if I cared or cared not for his words? Perhaps in the few moons you have been ignoring me, I have changed my interests.” You counter, fixing Jon with your own withering stare.

He laughs humorlessly. “You do not change interests, not so much that you find talks of hunting and tanning to suddenly be enrapturing.”

“I do find a good hunting tale to be interesti—did I not tell you to leave my sight?” You say, cutting yourself off before Jon can drag you off course.

He takes a step towards you, looming over you, his lips set in a hard line. “You did, but you did not say I could not return to it.”

“Semantics.” You wave your hand dismissively. “I do not want to see you, and I do not appreciate being pulled away on a lie.”

Another step. “It was not a lie.”

“Who needs me then? Surely it is not you, the honorable Lord Jon Snow.” You snark, crossing your arms over your chest.

He does not answer, simply watches you, drinks your torchlit form in.

“If you have nothing to say, then I shall return to Lord Tyrell, he had much to say to me.”

Suddenly your back is pressed against the wall, the stone cool against your heated skin, Jon’s strong arms encaging you, his head dipping low, his voice even lower, his dark hair still tied back and his eyes nearly black in the shadows of the hall. “You cannot keep on this way.”

You look up at him, still breathless from the dance and your argument. “What do you mean?”

His eyes flit down to your rising and falling breasts, soft skin exposed by the low-cut gowns your aunt had made for you, gowns meant to tempt your potential suitors, the ones you wished would tempt him. “You know what you are doing, y/n.”

“I do not, so unless you are going to tell me, I would ask you to release me.” You say imperiously, though you hope he does not release you. It feels as if it has been ages since you had his attention fully on you, since he dared to stand so close.

“The laughing, the flirting, the smiles and fluttering of eyelashes, the pouts? You are driving every man in the room mad with desire.” He says, his accent thickening, the rough brocade making your stomach flip, your heart nearly beating out of your chest.

“I am simply enjoying the party; I cannot control if men look at me, if they wish to dance with me. Would you have me say no? Answer every lord and knight who asks for a dance with an icy glare and utter contempt?”

“Yes. Yes, I would.” Jon growls, his breath warm against the shell of your ear, his hands curling into fists on the wall above you, his chest heaving with the act of self-restraint. “I would have you tell them to sod off, that your hand is spoken for.”

“But I cannot, there has been no formal betrothal, and it would be rude.” You tell him, lifting your chin in defiance. He has been hot and cold with you, and you are sick of it, you need to hear him say it, hear him admit he still wants you.

“Others take them and any sense of rudeness, you are mine.” He snarls, gripping the back of your neck, his fingers spreading out into your hair, his touch is not harsh, but firm, for Jon is never rough with you.

Goosebumps adorn your skin, liquid heat filling your veins. It feels good to hear him say it, to see him so possessive, see him feel the way you have felt watching that Westerling girl fall all over him. “Am I? Because it seemed that perhaps Lady Jayne had taken my place.”

Jon laughs, the sound harsh. “The Westerling? You have thrown a fit because of some girl I met only tonight?”

“I am not throwing a fit, I am acting as an unmarried lady must, to secure a match.” You argue, throwing the unmarried part in his face.

He shakes his head, before dipping it lower, trailing his lips along the curve of your neck nipping at the skin as he goes. “If you wish to be a married lady so badly, my lioness, I will take you to the Godswood right now and throw my cloak over you. Would that suit you? Would that cease these unneeded flirtations?”

You draw a quick intake of breath, eyes fluttering shut as Jon kisses the crook of your neck, using the hand in your hair to guide your head, exposing more sensitive skin to his touch.

“Would my starlight like that? To finally be Lady Dayne, the pretty lioness with her husband who trails after her, devoted, desperate, a lovesick wolf pup who wants only to make his lovely wife happy?”

This, this is what you have needed to hear.

“Yes, please, Jon, I want to be your wife.” You say, your hands pressed to his chest, desperate to feel his heart beating beneath his doublet.

“I want you to be my wife as well, more than you will ever know y/n, but we must wait.” Jon says softly, and your eyes fly open, the illusion shattered.

You shove at his chest angrily; he predictably does not move, but you do it again anyways. “Gods take me, I cannot wait any longer. I cannot stand pretending I am interested in others. I cannot stand their lewd words, their stares, and I cannot pretend that I am unfazed by the stares you get, the whispers I hear, the maids and ladies that do not shy away from lusting after you.”

“I know, I know, but—” The sound of footsteps makes him jerk away from you, and you turn away from the sound, arms folded across your chest.

“Oh Lady Lannister, Ser Jon, I had wondered where you two had run off too.” Jayne’s voice is cloyingly sweet, and it infuriates you.

You turn towards her with a placid smile. “Apologies, Lady Westerling, I seem to have eaten something that does not agree with me, and Ser Jon was helping me to my chambers.”

Jayne makes a sound of sympathy. “Was it the shellfish? I find they are often the culprit.”

“My Lady does not enjoy she—”

“Yes, it was.” You take a step away from Jon. “Ser Jon, will you escort Lady Westerling back to the party? I will return to my chambers on my own.”

Jon moves to argue, but your expression is unyielding, and you storm off in the direction of your chambers, wiping away angry tears as you go.

You know it is not fair to blame Jon, he is trapped as you are, but you are still angry. Gods, your father was right. It would be easier if he was a Targaryen, then he could steal you away on a dragon. No one would argue, no one would be able to cite him as not a good enough match for you, they would have to accept the marriage or face dragonflame.

The sound of hurried footsteps nearly makes you turn, but you have no desire to see who is coming down the hall, especially not as tears continue to slide down your face.

“Lady y/n, please, wait.” Jon calls.

“What, whatever could you want?” You snap, continuing to walk forward, vision slightly blurred, tears dripping onto your dress.

He catches up to you easily, pulling you into a shadowy alcove. “I simply wish to talk, to understand what has made you so angry.”

You fix him with a stunned look, blinking away your tears. “How can you not know? I have stated it quite clearly.”

“I understand you are upset that we cannot yet marry, but the plan y/n.”

A sob rips from your throat, and you shake your head. “It is more than that and you know it.”

Jon cups your face, his own a portrait of guilt-ridden agony. “Please, please, do not cry, my starlight, I cannot bear to see you cry.”

“Do not tell me what to do.” Your words sound much less sharp than you wished them to.

He wipes your tears away with his calloused thumbs catching them as quick as they fall. “I am sorry, y/n I am so, so sorry, I never should have danced with Lady Westerling.”

You pull away from him with an angry sob, continuing your blind storm down the hall. “I do not care about Lady Jayne.”

Jon beats you to your chambers, opening the door for you, giving you no choice but to enter or keep walking down the hall.

You enter, keeping your back to him as you throw open the balcony doors, lungs burning for fresh air. You are suffocating under the weight of this night, of this unknown plan, of the hurt you feel knowing you can not go a single day without speaking to Jon, without being near him. Yet, he seems to be able to survive moons without you.

“Then what do you care about, because I am lost, y/n.” He says, and you can feel his presence behind you, still in the doorway, close but not close enough, just as he has been since he spoke with your uncle.

“You! I care about you, Jon, as I always have.” You tell him, turning to face him, throwing your arms in the air helplessly, tears streaming down your face.

“Then why did you cast me from your sight?” He wears that hurt puppy dog look that never fails to melt you, but your anger keeps you frozen.

How can he not know? How can he not see the pain he has caused you? Jon is not a fool, he is not blind, and truly there is no one who can read you better than him and yet it is as if you have suddenly been written in another language.

“You have been so cold, so distant, these past few moons. Then you storm up to me tonight and act as if I am doing something wrong. As if I am hurting you, when it is you who has been hurting me.” You tell him, your hands balled into fists at your side to hide their shaking. “Even now you stand so far from me, and I know you say you are training, that you wish to protect our reputations, but I cannot go on like this.”

Jon says your name softly.

“No, Jon, I cannot hear another excuse. I know my uncle said something to you, but is he truly the man to take advice from? Seven knows I love him, but…” You wrap your arms around yourself, wiping your tears with your sleeves, uncaring if they are stained with cosmetics. “If there is someone else, if I have lost your affections, you must tell me because I cannot understand what else would cause you to hurt me in this way.”

“There is no one else.” He says fervently, desperately. “Y/N I swear it to you, there is no one else.”

You cannot look at him, casting your eyes towards the moon. “I love you Jon, but I cannot bear this distance any longer, you must make a choice.”

“A choice?” He rasps, the sound so quiet it is nearly drowned out by the wind.

The words taste bitter on your tongue, but they must be said. “To end this strange game, you are playing and return to being the man I have known for the last four years or continue to play it, and I will ask my father to release you from my service and allow you to return home to Winterfell.”

Your words linger in the night air, the space between you and him not even the length of two grown men, yet it feels like an ever-widening chasm.

“You would release me from your service?”

You wipe away a stray tear, throat tight with grief. “If it is what you desire.”

“You would send me away?” His voice is strained, and you chance a look at him.

He is beautiful in the moonlight, a tragic beauty, as to look upon him pains you. His dark eyes cannot settle on one part of your face, as if this is the last time they will ever see it. The thought tears at the flimsy hold you have on your composure, and you press your hand to your aching chest.

“I do not want to.” You sob, curling your fingers around your necklace, desperate for something to hold onto. “But I cannot play your game, I am drowning without you, and if you wish to leave, if it will make you happy—”

Jon crosses the balcony in two large strides, and pulls you into his embrace, crushing you to his chest. “I love you, gods, y/n I am so sorry, I love you, I love you, I love you. I do not wish to leave, do not send me from your side, it would not make me happy, you make me happy.”

“Then why, why have you kept your distance from me? There have been so many things I wished to tell you, so many times I wished to reach out, but you turned from me.”

Jon rests his forehead against your own. “Your uncle, he spoke of his grief, how he did not wish me to further entangle myself with you as it would only cause us both pain.”

“Why would you listen to him?”

“Because I was afraid, and I felt…guilty. If he had seen it, then others would. I thought that if I kept my distance until we were formally betrothed, I could spare you further harm.” He sighs and rubs his hands up and down your arms soothingly. “Clearly I was mistaken.”

“Clearly.”

He squeezes your arms playfully. “It harmed me too; do you think it was not torture? That I did not miss you? That I did not curse myself for turning from you, that I did not drive myself mad trying to stay away from you?”

“Seems well deserved.” You pout, wrinkling your nose, even though you know you are being slightly petulant.

“Aye, it was.”

You bask in his warmth, listening to the sound of his breathing, clinging to him like a drifter at sea. “Is that the only thing you have been keeping from me?”

“There is more, I cannot tell you until the morn, but I will give you something to tide you over.” Jon says, wiping away the remainder of your tears with his calloused thumbs.

“More waiting, how wonderful.” You deadpan.

His voice drops to a whisper, a smile tugging at his lips. “My father is alive.”

You jerk back, shocked then delighted, soon Jon will be claimed, you truly will be able to marry soon. “Truly? Oh, Jon, that is wonderful news.”

Jon pulls you back, tilting your head gently and ghosting his lips over yours. “It is. Though I would rather speak of him in the morn, for I found myself missing your touch greatly these past few moons and have not yet gotten my fill.”

With a giggle, you melt against him, looping your arms around his neck, letting him tilt your chin up so that your lips meet. It is like returning home, laying down in a familiar bed, the stress of the day falling away. He smells different, a hint of spice, and you taste no hint of wine on his tongue.

“Did you not drink tonight?” You ask against his lips, your heart pounding as it always does for him.

“I could not risk finding my way to your chambers, bolstered by wine again. Not when it had been so long since I have held you in my arms. I feared I would fall upon you like a savage beast.” He breathes, his hands gliding down your body, the silk so thin you can feel the warmth of his hands through it.

“I would not mind that.” You admit, running your fingernails lightly down the nape of his neck, relishing the shiver it brought forth, a soft groan slipping from his lips.

“Do not tease me, I beg of you.” He pleads even as he pulls you closer, his nose trailing down the curve of your face.

“I should, you paid me such a horrid compliment in the Great Hall, it would only be fair.” You say, an indigent whine slipping past your whispered tones.

“I do apologize. I wished to say how beautiful you looked, how you shined, how if you were a goddess I would fall to my knees and worship you endlessly.” He says, tracing the curves of your body with his fingertips.

You let out a shuttering breath, eyes closed, as you allow Jon’s words and touch to wash over you, to ease your emotions as they always did.

“Is that better, my starlight? Am I forgiven for such a grievous blunder?” He teases, nipping at your bottom lip.

“If you do that trick with your tongue, you shall be.” You say breathlessly, as the tip of his tongue darts out to soothe the sting.

“As you wish.” He says, recapturing your lips wholly, his tongue meeting your own in a familiar dance.

A wolf whistle followed by drunken cheering has you both dropping to the floor, chests heaving, and hands pressed over your mouths to keep from laughing.

“Perhaps we should move this inside?”

TL: @mostclevermiss, @solacestyles, @2valentines, @sharknutz, @idohknow, @bdudette, @pluraldoggo, @legolastheleafyelf, @faerie-film

#meg's writing #jon snow #jon snow x y/n #jon snow x reader #jon snow x you #lannister!reader #I've been waiting to drop this one #jon snow imagine #jon snow imagines

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xbruised-peachx · 1 year ago

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could i get some soft gromsko hcs 🥺 sorry i keep seeing ones where hes a misogynist (untagged so it triggers me from a past relationship) and i much prefer your interpretation where he's caring but still confident

Aww 🫂🫂🫂 I'm sorry Anon, I'm actually in the same boat as you, my bad relationship ended exactly a year ago so yeah.

Everyone's allowed to have their own interpretation and all that fun stuff but I absolutely agree, I can't see him like that. Talking to my Polish friends about it, it's just not his generation and it's a very tired trope of "misogynistic, loud slavic man" they are not too happy seeing. For me, it's almost a bit of an American trope that is "loud and boisterous=asshole", which I dislike as he has multiple lines IN GAME that shows him as caring and you know... nice (ex. Czasami trzeba się poświęcić dla innych (sometimes you must sacrifice yourself for others), You're not dying yet!, Trzymać się (hold on) the surgeon is coming, I was proud to fight with you!, I am your wingman, etc). Not to mention you know... HE'S A MEDIC or at the very least "extensive medical training" as stated in his bio.

So yeah, I'll happily give you some nice, loud and proudly in love Gromsko headcanons, Anon💚

Tags: fem!reader, pure tooth rotting fluff, alcohol mention for the last point

Gromsko always has his arm around you in public. He wants the world to know how lucky he is to have you. He still has some slight guilt in his head about showing PDA from getting glares from various babcias back home, but he can't help it when he sees you, beautiful eyes looking back at him with such adoration. He has to show it back somehow.

Often, he'll just settle for hand holding (before marriage? Scandalous) as you guys walk around. He'll watch you as you interact with employees, you asking for help as his thumb runs over your knuckles, running along the back of your hand. Even if you get nervous talking to employees, his touch reminds you he's right there if you need him, and that he's more than willing to help if needed.

You getting disrespected sets him off in a whole new way. Instantly, he'll step in front, asserting his height advantage he often has, looking down at them with contempt that they would even dare speak to you like that. "Want to repeat that?" His voice coming out as low and threatening, booming around the room. When they inevitably leave you both alone, his attention goes right back to you, gently cupping your face as you look up to him as he asks if you're okay. You smile and nod, telling him a soft thank you. You can practically see his heart melt as he looks back, eyes softening and a gentle smile on his face, taking your hand and continuing like nothing happened.

Though he learned some cooking from his grandma, he has fond memories of watching Robert Makłowicz with his mom during weekends, making the recipes for dinner. When he found out Makłowicz has a YouTube channel, the two of you went on a deep dive for hours, cuddling on the couch and him translating for you when he started laughing or just said something nice, and thought it'd be nice to share. He also showed a few older clips, particularly this one of him and a dog and now the two of you have the little inside joke going "EHEHEHEHE" at small, cute things.

He often cooks for you, even wanting to take care of you like that as well. He doesn't mind the help but he takes quite a bit of pride in his cooking. He loves when you come up behind and just hug him while he's at the stove. For him, that plus you smiling as you eat a meal from him is the greatest reward.

Every injury is an emergency to him, often taking huge precautions even for little things. The house is never out of band-aids or antibiotic ointment. Even stubbing your toe will have him running out of whatever room he's in, stopping what he's doing to make sure you're okay.

He is the best to have around during the time of the month. He'll make some good iron rich foods, but still get you whatever snacks you want. He may want to take care of you physically but he knows part of health is mental too, and that he can't force something on you when you are craving something else. He makes sure heating pads are ready along with a nice comfortable spot in bed. He isn't overbearing though, as he knows sometimes you just need space. He knows that when you need him, you'll let him know. Often you have fallen asleep, head in his lap with a heated stuffed animal hugged to your chest. He'll carry you to the much more comfortable bed with ease, watching you at peace with a smile on his own face as he'd go back, cleaning up any snack wrappers in the living room, turning off any electric heating pads that might have been left on. He may join you for a nap eventually, but he'll leave you at peace for now.

Being used to waking up for the military, he wakes up before you, and he really doesn't mind. The warm glow of the sun rising as your lips are parted, gently breathing. His arm around you, he can feel the gentle rise and fall, your heart beat calm against him. He could look at you like this for hours, going back in forth in his head questioning how he got so lucky but also not wanting to question it, instead to just enjoy this quiet morning. Birds chirping, he wants to get up and make some coffee for you but he doesn't want to leave you in this moment... not now or ever.

He loves animals... all of them. Often, if he sees a random animal in the street, he'll call out to it instinctively in Polish, often leaving a poor hedgehog stunned in the streets, unsure what to do about this giant heading towards them. He loves going to the shelter with you, seeing big dogs go from barking to wagging their tail, wanting to get out to play, and going to cat rooms to sit for a while, playing with all the cats, young and old. Old cats flock to him like no other and he always imitates their crispy meows. Seeing him hold a kitten that easy fits in his hands, curling up into a ball as he holds it against his broad chest, gently petting its head with two of his fingers... it warms your soul.

He is a very affectionate drunk. He'll be stumbling down the streets, goofy grin on his face as he hugged on you for balance. If any even breathes in your direction, positive or negative, he'll be calling out to them, "HEJ! To moja dziewczyna... GO!" (Hey, that's my girlfriend) You often end up apologizing to whoever it is, his slurred speech being the answer for why. When you get home he'll often just keep repeating how beautiful you are while snuggled in your chest for once. Looking up at you, you see that look of disbelief in his eyes, but quickly returning to just bliss as he remembers you belong to each other. Snoring like a bear buried deep, he knows absolute comfort knowing you'll be there for each other for the inevitable hangover the next morning.

#call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #cod mw2 #gromsko #gromsko mw2 #ask peach #gromsko x reader #sobiesław kościuszko x reader #sobiesław kościuszko #call of duty x reader #mw2 x reader #cod x reader #grom writing

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suddenly-frankenstein · 4 months ago

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Hello! Fellow Frankenstein freak here! I have to ask, what's your favorite Frankenstein movie you've seen? Not necessarily the best one, but your favorite one. I made myself watch about 25 last year for reasons (that's as many as I could watch in one week for free, dating from 1910 to the early 2000s) and they're all so bizarre. I love talking about them so much, I love watching peoples faces when I tell them that one time Sting played Frankenstein, and in that same movie The Creature and his buddy are targeted by the Circus Mafia. Or how at least one version of Victor Frankenstein has an alligator pit. Or how Kenneth Branagh made Robert De Niro be birthed out of instapot and then they spend like 30 seconds slipping in Mysterious Science Goop before the plot continues.

TLDR; I don't know anyone else who is as obsessed with this stuff as I am and would love to hear your thoughts lmao

damn, my biggest problem is that I've watched so many of them few years ago, that I mostly don't remember anything :")

but I definitely have some that I still think about constantly!! maybe the first one and the most special in my eyes is "Frankenstein: The True Story" (1973), because in this movie Victor REALLY cared about the Creature and TOOK THE RESPONSIBILITY. he taught him things, he spent time with him – and when the Creature started to decay and lose temper, yeah, he decided to lock him, but Victor was going to lock himself as well so the Creature wouldn't be dying alone. and they even had a hug!! (still everything ended up terribly, but it was interesting to see this responsible version of Victor, not canonical book version, but also not usual movie mad scientist either).

well, speaking of classics and mad scientists – I love first two movies of UNIVERSAL's franchise, rewatch them from time to time. And within the Hammer's franchise I like the third (if I remember right) movie – "The Evil of Frankenstein", even though it mostly is called the worst of them all lmao. I just think it was funny and not annoying like the other. and I also LOVE the first several minutes of the first movie – "The Curse of Frankenstein" with the young Victor played by Melvyn Hayes, because OH HE WAS DEFINITELY SERVING. for me this young Victor was the closest to the book from all of the versions of him.

(I even did a funny edit of him once, here, lmao)

the most controversial version but I can't NOT TO THINK ABOUT IT – it's "Flesh for Frankenstein" of course (not even speaking about the plot, but god how I hate color correction in most of the 70's movies, these colors usually make me sick almost physically).

but well, uh, how the hell I was surprised when Udo Kier's Frankenstein turned out to look SO DAMN CLOSE to like I always draw him (I mean just give him another nose shape and he will look exactly how I imagine Victor) :") just hello??? DAMN

also want to mention "Terror of Frankenstein" (1977) movie, because they have an interesting design of the Creature here (finally black lips yaaay!) and sweet sweet Clerval (I hate that most of the movies are throwing him and Justine out of the plot :(( )

AND ALSO!! not movies, but I LOVE LOVE LOVE these adaptations – Frankenstein: the Metal Opera, 2014 (you can find its official record for free on youtube) and Frankenstein, the Royal Ballet, 2017!! I, personally, enjoyed them both very much

well, these ones are some of the movies I think the most about, I guess :")

really thank you for your question!!

#oh it turned out to be kinda long #I have no idea when to shut up 😅#but hope it was somehow interesting!!#victor frankenstein #frankestein #my ask

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love-kurdt · 6 months ago

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Now That We Don't Talk (byler): 2

word count: 15,023

warnings for this chapter: homophobia, parental disownment, very graphic imagery presented in a nightmare (car crash, blood and dying), underage drinking, sexual content, assault/rape. this is semi-autobiographical so pls be kind <3

in short, if you are emotionally or mentally vulnerable, pls dni.

“Uh… hey. I’m– I’m Will. Byers,” I stuttered out, shoving my hands in the pockets of my khaki pants. Matt blinked back at me for a second, as if he were processing what I was saying over the deafening music. Should I have been a little bit louder?

“H–fuck,” Matt swore, plucking a pair of plastic fangs from his mouth and tossing them somewhere behind him. He cleared his throat and shook his head, his eyes shut tightly. Had I met my awkward match? “I’m so sorry, let me start again,” he smiled, extending a hand out to me. “Hi. Matt Winters, nice to meet you.”

I took his hand, hesitantly shaking it. Of course he had the same initials as Mike. Of fucking course, out of all the people at this party that my friends could’ve introduced me to, he–

“Sorry, I’m not sure how to do this,” Matt confessed, looking a bit flustered. “I, um… I wasn’t really expecting to be, you know, set up with anyone tonight. If you aren’t able to tell, I’m pretty nervous, because you’re really cute, and I’m afraid I’m fucking this all up–”

“No no no, you’re fine! We’re on the same page,” I told him, placing a hand on his shoulder in reassurance. “I’m personally kind of terrible at starting conversations, so… you’re good, I promise. And, um, you’re pretty cute yourself.” And he was. He was lean, and stood at around six feet tall, at my best estimate. He had dark eyes, full lips, an adorable nose, a light stubble across his jaw, and beautiful olive undertones in his skin.

“Thank you,” Matt said as he shifted back and forth on his feet a few times. He was probably struggling with how to progress the conversation, just like I was. I felt unsure as to if this should’ve been considered a blessing or a curse, because yes, we understood each other, but on the other hand, coming up with new subjects was neither of our strong suits.

“So,” I said with the most serious expression on my face that I could muster, “Come here often?” Matt laughed at that, and the sound of his laughter alone set a thousand butterflies free in my stomach.

He then leaned into my space to respond to my question: “I’m not much of a party person, so, not really. My best friend, Riley, is dating your DM, and they apparently arranged this… thing… a few days ago.”

“What ‘thing’?” I asked, and cocked an eyebrow.

“Where you and I… you know,” he replied with a light shrug.

I shook my head. “I don’t, actually.”

“Um…” Matt trailed off, and I quickly glanced over his shoulder to see Ivy making out with Hannah against a wall across the room before focusing back on Matt. She clearly wasn’t available to potentially come to my rescue if things went south. I really hoped that “you know” wasn’t code for “have sex.” It wasn’t that I was afraid to have sex per se, or that I didn’t want to; it was just that I wasn’t into the whole idea of one night stands or hookups. If I was going to have sex, I’d want to be in a committed relationship with the guy I was with.

Before either of us could figure out how to salvage this uncomfortable dialogue, a very familiar bass and drum introduction blared out of the PA system stationed in the corner of the living room.

“Oh, thank God, saved by The Cure. I fucking love this song,” Matt sighed loudly in relief at “Just Like Heaven”’s high pitched, organ-esque synth lead. Any doubts or reservations I was having about this man were melting away by the second.

“Really? Same here!” I exclaimed, and Matt nodded.

“Yeah, they’re one of my favorite bands. I saw them live last year, and I was never the same.” He raised a hand to scratch the back of his neck, and I gawked with wide eyes.

“I will forever be jealous of you. Robert Smith’s lyricism is unmatched.”

“You’re so right,” Matt nodded along to the beat, reaching out to hold my hand in his. “And who knows? Maybe we can go to one of their shows someday.” Was this even real? What did I do to deserve this? Did I deserve this? I’d have to stick around to find out.

“Someday. Maybe,” I found myself replying, holding onto Matt’s hand a little tighter. We’d figure out the whole intimacy situation later. In the meantime–

“Wanna… dance? Let’s dance,” Matt said, pulling me by our connected hands into the middle of the crowd of people before I could manage to protest. And claustrophobia be damned, I didn’t feel like I was going to implode. Not when Matt’s hands gripped my waist. Not when my hands slowly moved from his chest, up and around his neck. Not when we swayed back and forth in a slow dance to an upbeat song. Not when our eyes met, and Matt’s nearly black irises got impossibly darker, but in the most comforting way possible. Not when Robert Smith ended his phrase, “I’ll run away with you,” the guitar top line began again, and one of Matt’s hands gently caressed the side of my face before pulling me into a soft kiss.

I couldn’t believe this was happening. I was kind of worried about it being so soon after meeting him, but… I didn’t hate it. Not at all. I didn’t hate it so much that I pulled him in even closer, swiping the tip of my tongue against the seam of his lips, deepening the kiss. He let me in immediately, and suddenly our tongues were sliding against each other, and oh my God, this was my first time making out with someone, wasn’t it? Was my kissing okay? Was I doing this right? Was I–

And then I felt Matt moan against my mouth, and his grip on my hips tighten, and I knew I had a generally good idea. He ran his hands up my torso and through my hair and it was like I forgot how to breathe. "Just Like Heaven" was still playing, but I could barely hear the lyrics anymore; just mine and Matt’s simultaneous inhales and exhales, the obscene sound our lips were likely making, and our friends’ unanimous screeching in the distance. They’d been watching us, the little shits. They definitely succeeded in their mission, I’d give them that. We pulled away from one another, but not too far, as he leaned his forehead against mine, his thumb brushing my cheekbone.

“I’m not into one night stands or hookups,” I blurted out immediately. I felt heat rise to my face at my brashness. Was I sabotaging my only chance at happiness? I had probably already ruined what we had with my sky-high expectations. But before I could backtrack, Matt merely pecked my lips again with a chuckle.

“That’s perfect. Because neither am I.”

I stared up at him in awe, brushing some hair away from his eyes. “Are you real?”

“Who even is real, nowadays? We’re all just figments of the material plane, if you think about it,” Matt replied, and I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I rose up onto my tiptoes and kissed him this time. He melted into it instantly, and I felt like I was going to die of pure joy.

“Wanna go somewhere that’s not your place or mine?” he asked once I pulled away. I searched his face for an impending “just kidding,” or a “no homo, bro,” but found nothing of the sort. This was real. Matt Winters liked me, no mind fuckery included.

“Yeah, let’s go,” I said. Matt only grinned as he took my hand in his once again, leading me out of the crowd and out into the crisp October night, laughing the whole way to his car.

“So,” Matt said, leaning his forearms on the surface of the tabletop that separated us. “Will Byers. Tell me ten things about you, go.”

We’d driven around for a few hours, listening to music and ranking our top twenty favorite bands, and it turned out that we had a lot in common. We eventually got hungry and ventured into a twenty-four hour diner. It was about twenty minutes away from campus; a very run-down place with dim lighting and 70s wood paneling, but Matt swore the food there was to die for, so I had to try it for myself. He was very, very right; I would have believed it if someone told me the grilled cheese and tomato soup combo I ordered had been laced with crack.

“Okay,” I nodded, trying to conjure up all of my generic fun facts. “Um… I’m from Hawkins, Indiana… I have a brother named Jonathan who’s four years older than me, and a stepsister named El, but I honestly just refer to her as my sister. I love D&D and I’m part of the club here, I love to read musician biographies, and sometimes the occasional cheesy romance– you know, the ones with the abs on the cover, I’m a freshman painting major, I love to sing, but I’m awful at it–”

“Now I’ve gotta hear that singing voice of yours,” Matt declared.

I shook my head vigorously. “Not a chance.” But then Matt gave me puppy eyes. Damnit.

“...Fine. Maybe after our fifth date.”

“I’m holding you to that, Byers.”

“Anyway…” I felt a smile involuntarily spread across my face. Who even was I? I’d truly believed that I would never be able to smile again after the series of events that went down in August, but here Matt was, making smiling feel so natural. “What number was I on?”

“Six, going on seven.”

“Alright, so I–I’m not much of a drinker, but when I do, it’s usually straight up liquor. Like, shots. If I’m gonna consume alcohol, I’m gonna suffer while doing it. That way, I won’t end up liking it too much. Don’t want to end up like my…” I stopped myself from elaborating further, mentally kicking myself for revealing too much of my life, “…father.”

Matt crossed his arms and slouched back into his seat, seemingly unsurprised. “Your father’s an alcoholic, then?” he asked.

I looked down momentarily at my hands, where my knuckles had gone white while clasping them together for dear life. “Something like that,” I shrugged. “He usually had beer and whiskey, so I steer clear from those, and just do shots of vodka or tequila. I know that’s not any better, but I think that if I were to drink beer or whiskey, I’d feel…” I grimaced at the thought, “more like his son than I’d prefer.”

Matt leaned forward once more and reached out to separate my hands with his own, holding them instead. I glanced down at our intertwined fingers, then back up into Matt’s eyes, and felt my face go ablaze with furious flames. “Gotcha,” he nodded solemnly as he rubbed his thumb over the back of my hand, “I admire you for distancing yourself away from the path to becoming like him. That alone takes an incredible sense of…”

“Of what?” I asked, withdrawing my hands from his in order to take another bite of my grilled cheese.

“Would it be corny if I said ‘Will-power’?” Matt glanced at me sheepishly, and I had to hold in a laugh as I chewed.

“Incredibly,” I replied. “Although, you’re not the first one who’s said that.”

“Damnit. Who beat me to it?”

“My friend, Dustin,” I smiled at the thought of my friend. I should call him soon, I thought to myself. I miss him. “He’s always had the weirdest names for things.”

“Like what?” Matt asked, and I froze. Like what? Like… Watergate? Demodog? Vecnapocalypse? I couldn’t tell him about any of those things without sounding like a total psychopath or violating the conditions of my NDAs.

I settled on a simple, “... I forgot.”

Matt snapped his fingers, disappointed. “Damn.”

“Yeah,” I nodded in agreement, then lifted my eyes up to his again with a small smirk. “But I know for a fact that I’ll remember something at, like, 1am and call you up to tell you about it.” Matt let out a chuckle at that, and I frowned in confusion.

“Sorry to break it to you, hon…” Matt replied slowly, testing out the new name on his tongue, making me blush, “but it’s 1:32am.”

My eyes widened at that. “No fucking way.”

“Way.”

“We’ve been here for, what,” I checked my watch, just to verify how long we’d been seated in the diner booth, “four and a half hours? And I still barely know anything about you!”

Matt chuckled. “We’ve gotta finish the list of ten things about you, first!”

“Not my fault you keep distracting me.”

I could hear the smile spreading across his face as he said, “I’m distracting, now, am I?”

“You are,” I admitted.

Matt narrowed his eyes and stroked his chin in feigned suspicion. “Interesting.”

“Okay,” I took a deep breath, pushing the conversation forward before I got too flustered and lost my train of thought once again. “So… Hawkins, Jonathan and El, D&D, books, my major, singing, alcohol, my father, Dustin–”

“Dustin doesn’t count,” Matt said.

“He does, too!” I insisted, letting a little bit of my inner child seep through the cracks of my adult persona.

“Fine,” Matt relented with a slight eye roll, “But only because I like you.”

Well, that was very forward of him. It wasn’t too out of pocket, given the fact that I’d literally made out with him not even ten minutes into knowing his name, but listening to a guy openly admitting his romantic feelings for me without any form of hesitation was something I had yet to get used to. I spent years hiding my own feelings, and Mike… fuck Mike. “I like you, too,” I told him, and I felt a sense of… accomplishment? This year’s Moving On Award recipient is… Will Byers, from Mike Wheeler to Matt Winters! Cue the fanfare, confetti, et cetera.

“… And that’s ten.”

“Really?” I shook my head in confusion. “What was ten?”

“That you’re into me.”

“Oh,” I said with a slight eye roll at my own stupidity, “Yeah. I guess that was ten things.”

“And that’s my number one. I like you,” he nudged my foot with his under the table with a smirk, “I have severe ADHD, I had a dog as a kid and named him Swayze— he was a pomeranian. I’m a senior material studies major because I can’t make decisions to save my life. I have a passion for writing and have this dream of writing and illustrating my own stories someday–”

“Woah, me too!” I interrupted, and Matt’s eyes lit up in surprise.

“No way, you write as well?”

How to Explain The Status of Your Co-Writing Relationship with Your Ex-Best Friend Who You Were in Unrequited but Not Actually Unrequited Love With, All Without Mentioning His Name for Dummies would’ve been pretty useful right about now. “Uh… no. I used to work on silly comic books with some of my old friends, but I only illustrated. Someone else did the writing.”

“Cool,” Matt nodded in approval.

“I have no idea what's gonna happen next. But, whatever it is, I... I think we should work together. I think it'll be easier if we're... we're a team. Friends. Best friends.”

“Cool.”

“So, uh—” Fuck, I hadn’t even realized I’d spaced out. “That was five, right?” Matt asked me, and I nodded, taking a sip of my Diet Coke. How long did I dissociate for? This hadn’t happened to me in months.

“My favorite subject back in high school was Home Economics,” he continued. “Frankly, I think the skills taught in that class helped me out in life way more than any trigonometric equation ever could. I smoke grass regularly, but hate cigarettes.” Now I had a valid reason to quit smoking. Not like I should’ve been smoking underage to begin with, but that was besides the point.

“I love virtually anything Stephen King, I’m a coffee connoisseur of sorts since I work at a café, and…” Matt leaned his elbow against the table and rested his head on his palm, deep in thought. “If I were to live anywhere in the world for the rest of my life, it would be Israel.”

I raised a quizzical eyebrow at that. “Why Israel?”

“I have some extended family there, in Tel-Aviv. I went to Jerusalem a few summers back, and… fuck, that city is beautiful. I’ve been there only once, but there’s something about exploring your religious heritage in the place it originated is so surreal.”

“Wait, you’re Jewish, too?”

“Yeah. I actually grew up in an Orthodox home, but my parents were really loose with the religious laws and shit. But when I came out as gay, I guess… all of the rules suddenly mattered. They cut me off, like, seven years ago,” Matt told me, pressing his knuckles into his palm one by one with his thumb. “Which, now that I think about it, I’m not sure if spending the rest of my life in Israel is the most logical idea I’ve ever had–”

“You said you’re a senior, right?” I asked. Matt nodded curtly. I did the mental math, and came to the conclusion that either I was horrible at simple subtraction, or… “You were cut off while you were a freshman in high school?”

“Yup.”

“Wow, I can’t even imagine what that must have been like for you. I’m so sorry.”

“Eh, I was better off,” Matt said with a resigned shrug. “I lived with my now-ex, Hayden, for the rest of high school. His parents were so supportive. It made me jealous sometimes. But they ended up being more influential on my life than my own parents had ever been capable of being.” As he spoke, I couldn’t help but let my mind drift to my own mom and dad. The opportunity to disown me was right there in front of them, and yet, they hadn’t thought twice about accepting me when I came out to them. I was glad that Matt at least had Hayden’s parents to lean on. That was, until they broke up. So did that mean that he didn’t have any family at all?

“I kind of don’t want to ask this because it sounds pretty fucking shallow in comparison to what you just told me, but… why’d you two break up?” I asked hesitantly. Matt dismissed my self-consciousness with a wave of his hand.

“You’re totally fine, it’s a valid question. I’m completely okay with sharing, too, if you’re worried about that.” It was like he was in my head. “I didn’t really want to break up with him, honestly. But he insisted that since he was going to Utah for college and I was going to Illinois, long distance wasn’t feasible. I just wanted him to be happy, and for us to end things on a high note, so… I let him go. After I did, though, I was so hesitant to get back into the dating scene. I couldn’t picture myself loving anyone else. He taught me what love was.”

I knew how that felt. I told him so, and he chuckled softly before resting his head on the palm of his hand. “We’re a lot alike, I think,” he said as he glanced up at me, sparkles dancing in the umber shade of his irises. “Aren’t we?” Damn, Matt knew how to make a man swoon. I was falling harder for him by the second, and I wasn’t in any kind of rush to slow down.

“I’d say so, yeah.”

“Good, I’m glad you agree,” Matt said. “Because for the first time in a long time, I can see further than a few days into my future.”

The rest of the night went by faster than either of us could believe. Once the sun had begun to rise, we’d left the diner and headed back into the city. Matt insisted on kissing me at every red light. For years, I’d held onto the belief that I wasn’t worthy of romantically-charged physical contact, yet here Matt was, openly willing to give it to me. So I happily obliged, because what the hell, I hadn’t received affection like this in my whole life.

Matt drove us to McKinley Park, and we walked around hand in hand for a little bit longer until both of us were yawning in the middle of every other sentence. We found a nearby bench and I checked my watch, and saw 08:43 flashing back at me. I turned to look at Matt, who was stifling yet another yawn, and I couldn’t help but giggle at the complete lunacy that was this twelve hour date.

“The exhaustion has finally caught up with us, huh?” I teased.

Matt exhaled, leaning his head against my shoulder. “Yeah…”

“I don’t want this to end, though,” I admitted.

Matt hummed into my tee shirt in with assent before muttering, “What if it didn’t have to?”

I shrugged, causing Matt to lift his head back up so our eyes could meet. “I don’t know what you’re alluding to,” I began, “but I’m still not sleeping with you–”

“I never said anything about that–”

“...Yet.”

“I don’t know what you’re implying, but I was planning on simply sleeping.” Matt smirked, continuing on with the comedic bit, despite my confession of being open to having sex with him in the future. “As in, a synonym of slumber, snoozing, s–”

He was being so adorable, I couldn’t take it anymore. I reached up to hold Matt’s face between my hands before pulling him in and firmly pressing our lips together. I felt him gasp against my mouth in surprise, and I realized then that I was the one initiating the kiss this time. And that felt fucking amazing.

“God, times were easier when those people kept their filth behind closed doors,” I heard a voice say from a few feet away. I let go of Matt and turned to see three men standing together in denim biker jackets in front of the bench we were sitting on.

“What did you just say?” I asked, moving to stand up.

“I said that the world was better off when fags like you weren’t shoving your ideologies down our throats,” I felt Matt tug on my arm as if to say No, don’t feed into it, they’re not worth it, but I was so beyond done with being mistreated that standing up to these idiots felt like a walk in the park… literally.

I approached the men and rested my hands on my hips, popping one out for added Gay Emphasis. “I know of another thing that I could shove down your throat, but I don’t think you’d like it all that much.” They stared back at me in stunned silence, but I wasn’t done with them yet. “So if I were you, I’d back the fuck off and mind your own business. I know a good lawyer.”

They didn’t need to be told twice; they immediately fled the scene, leaving me feeling satisfied and Matt shellshocked. I turned back to ask if he was okay, only to be grabbed by my biceps and pushed against a tree a few feet away. And suddenly Matt’s tongue was down my throat. It only lasted for a second before he pulled away, his eyes wild. “That was so hot. Will,” he whispered, reaching up to hold my face in his hands. “That was so fucking hot, c’mere–” I let out a giggle as Matt kissed my neck once, twice, and then moved back to my lips, swallowing the moan that escaped my throat. It hit me then that we were still in public.

“Okay, okay,” I lightly pushed him away, much to both of our disappointment. “Let’s go before we actually get hate crimed.”

I opened my eyes to a popcorn ceiling. I despised popcorn ceilings. I bolted upright, processing this unfamiliar room in a slight panic. When I was met with red walls and a poster of the album “Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me,” by The Cure, I remembered where I was; Matt and I had gone back to his house after spending twelve hours together. I was in his bed, and he wasn’t there with me. He really had been serious about respecting my wishes, and took the couch.

I flopped down onto my back and turned my head so my cheek rested on the pillow I’d slept on. I breathed in and could immediately identify Matt’s scent; pine and a faint hint of lavender dryer sheets. God, yesterday was a whirlwind. And to think it all started with Shaggy and Dracula.

I turned my head to look out the window to see that the sun was almost set. I’d slept through the entire day. My sleep schedule was definitely going to be fucked up for a while. Honestly, though, if I had to choose a twelve hour date with Matt Winters or a healthy circadian rhythm, I’d choose Matt. There was no doubt about it; I’d fallen hard, and fallen fast.

After letting myself wake up a little more, I pushed myself off of the mattress and wandered out of Matt’s room, down the hall, and into the living room, where Matt was still asleep, a little bit of drool puddling on the decorative pillow below his head. He was an adorable sleeper. As if he could hear my thoughts, Matt’s eyelids fluttered open slowly and I was greeted with a shy smile.

“Mornin’” Matt rasped out.

“Try evening,” I replied with a low chuckle.

Matt stood up from his spot on the couch and made his way over to me, lifting a hand to push a piece of hair out of my face and behind my ear. “Did you have a nice sleep?”

“Yeah,” I said. Matt intertwined his free hand with mine.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked me. I nodded in lieu of a response, and then I was being pulled in and kissed like Matt’s life depended on it. I was so happy. I was so damn happy that I started smiling into our kiss, effectively breaking it. I looked up at Matt to notice that he was grinning as well, and we broke into a fit of giggles before leaning into each other again and falling, falling, falling… right into Matt’s bed.

“This is getting awfully hot and heavy” Matt muttered against my lips, and I groped his ass as he hovered over me.

“Yeah,” I agreed with half my mind turned to putty, and he grinded down against me, eliciting a moan from the both of us, “It is.”

“You wanna stop?” Matt asked, and I pulled away, thinking I’d made him feel uncomfortable. He must have seen the worry on my face, and was quick to reassure me otherwise with a light peck to my lips. “I mean, I don’t want to stop, but… I want to respect your boundaries. I won’t do anything you don’t feel comfortable with.”

“Matt,” I said, relishing in the sound of his breath hitching following my mention of his name, “I’ve never felt this way about a guy in my life. It’s a crime that we just met a little less than twenty four hours ago.”

With a surge of bravado I didn’t know I even had, I flipped us over with a grunt so I was the one on top, bracketing Matt in between my arms. He looked up at me in a haze, his eyes filled with pure lust.

“So I say fuck it.”

I’d just gotten back from Painting I, where Miriam had made the announcement that The Heart had been selected for a display in the lobby of the Admissions office building. I was glad that others were able to find joy in the piece I’d spent hours upon hours in emotional turmoil over. After class, I headed back to my dorm and called Lucas. We’d started up a routine of calling once a week, if not every two weeks. Dustin and I spoke a little less frequently, but we thankfully had that kind of friendship where we could go a while without talking and pick up right where we left off. El and I spoke almost daily. I heard the ringback tone go through a few times before Lucas picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hey Lucas, it’s Will,” I said.

“Hey, man! How’ve you been?”

“I’ve been alright, you?”

“Same here, pushing through,” I heard the sound of a door slamming in the background. “Oh, hey babe, Will’s on the phone if you wanna say hi! Max just got in from PT.”

“Give me the phone, stalker,” I heard Max say, and I smiled as I heard the phone shuffling between their hands. “William. My dear.”

“You let her call you William?” Lucas shouted from a distance. “You never let me call you William.”

“You don’t let me call you Lukey Poo,” I replied, and I heard Lucas tut in disappointment.

“There’s a huge difference between the connotations of William versus Lukey Poo. I’m gonna let you decide which one is degrading.”

“Touché.”

“So how are you?” Max asked me.

“I’m good.”

“Woah,” Lucas complained, “so with me you’re just alright, but with Max, you’re good?”

“Same thing.”

“Barely.”

“I’m alrood,” I laughed, leaning back onto my comforter. “Or galright.”

“God, you sound like Dustin,” Lucas huffed. He wasn’t… not right about that. “Wait, I’m gonna dial him in, hold on.” There was a brief silence, followed by–

“Lukey Poo! My brother!”

“For God’s sake, not you, too.”

“God is dead, Luc-ass Puke-Ass.”

“Brutal! Will, help me out here.”

“Will? You’re in Cali?”

“Nope, still in Chicago. Hey, Dusty Bun.”

“Would you look at that, the Party’s back together again!” Lucas exclaimed. “Well… minus Mike, of course.”

“And El,” Max added.

“Yeah, and El,” Dustin repeated. “How is she, by the way?” Classic Dustin, always asking about El. Maybe Mike had been right in Letter #24 when he mentioned the possible chemistry between those two.

“She’s good,” I replied. “The program she’s in at Vanderbilt is kicking her ass, but she’s kicking theirs right back.”

“Oh yeah, I bet,” Dustin gushed. “She’s so determined and committed, though, so I believe it.”

“Yeah,” Max agreed.

“Has anyone heard from Mike?” Dustin asked, and I felt my mouth go dry.

“No, he hasn’t picked up any of my calls this month,” Lucas said.

“Mine either,” Dustin sighed. “Will, have you tried calling him?”

Friends don’t lie. “No.”

“Why not?”

Why would I was on the tip of my tongue, but I bit it at the last second, opting to reply with, “I think he’s just busy, guys. I heard the writing program at U of Indy was pretty rigorous.”

“For a kindergartner, maybe!” Lucas snorted. ”Plus, Mike’s always been some sort of prolific author prodigy! It should be a piece of cake for him!”

“Right?” Dustin grumbled. “I’m so confused. He just… vanished out of our lives.”

“Will, what if you tried calling him?” Lucas asked me hesitantly before adding, “He’s always had a thing for you.”

“What?” I shot up into a sitting position, unable to comprehend what I had just heard.

“Yeah, I gotta admit, buddy, you lost me there, too,” Dustin said.

“I just mean he’d probably pick up if he knew it was you,” Lucas explained, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “You and Mike have always been closer with each other compared to the rest of us.”

I exhaled extra heavily, hoping they’d pick up on my reluctance to do what was being asked of me. “I don’t know.”

“I sense some tension,” Dustin remarked. I could see his wiggling eyebrows from all eight hundred and forty-nine miles away. “What are you not telling us?”

“Nothing! Just–” I cut myself off with a groan. “Fine. I’ll call him. But I’m telling you guys now that he’ll probably be like this with me too.” They were completely fine with that. Of course they were. Because they loved to see me suffer, apparently.

We ended the call about half an hour later, and I found myself still sitting on my bed with the receiver in my hand. Was I really debating upon whether or not I should call Mike? Yup. Was it a bad idea? Probably. Was I going to follow through with it? That remained to be seen.

“To call or not to call,” I whispered to myself, “That is the question.” Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing, end them. To die.

No. I couldn’t do it. Not yet.

Midterms came and went, and suddenly, it was Thanksgiving break. Matt and Riley had invited the rest of our D&D Party to spend Friendsgiving at their house, but I had to decline. I knew that if I didn’t come home for the holidays, I would never hear the end of it from my family and friends back in Hawkins.

I had yet to tell my family about Matt. It wasn’t like I was intentionally withholding the information from them. I was just so busy between finishing The Heart, organizing D&D campaigns with Kate, and making out with my boyfriend that when I did have time to talk to my family, the conversation was pretty surface-level. But now that we were all in the dining room together, digging into Mom’s kick-ass mashed potatoes, I’d figured that this would be a good time to bite the bullet.

“Guys… I have some news. It’s, uh… it’s pretty important.”

The sound of everyone’s forks on their plates stopped mid-scrape. I took a shaky breath. This wouldn’t be too difficult; coming out was the worst of it, but I was still anxious as to how everyone would take the news that I was actually dating a boy.

“What about, sweetie?” Mom asked.

“So… I might have a boyfriend.”

“Might?” Dad grumbled, stabbing a piece of broccoli with his fork. “So, what, you have half a boyfriend?”

Mom scoffed. “Hopper, for Christ’s sake–”

“We’re Jewish, Joyce.”

“For Christ’s sake–”

“Mom! Dad! Let him talk,” El cut Mom and Dad off, nodding at me to continue. “You were saying?”

“I have a whole boyfriend,” I playfully rolled my eyes. “We’ve been dating since the beginning of this month.”

“I’m very happy for you, Will. You deserve this,” my brother said in earnest, and I tried not to get choked up. He’d really been there for it all, hadn’t he? He’d seen me fall in love for the first time, and helped me through all of the grief and heartbreak that followed.

“Thanks, Jon.”

“So what’s this boy’s name?” Dad asked.

“Matt Winters.”

“Matt Winters,” El repeated, her eyebrows furrowing as she processed this new information. She shifted her gaze back up to me. “And you like him?”

“Um… I wouldn’t be dating him if I didn’t like him.”

“So why didn’t you invite him here for Thanksgiving?” Mom asked, looking almost offended if it weren’t for the wide smile on her face. “You know we have no problem with hosting guests!”

“Yeah, I know. That’s not the reason why I didn’t invite him, though,” I grimaced. How could I explain that Matt wasn’t anything like Mike, and that I wasn’t sure how they’d react to me dating someone new? How could I explain that I still wasn't exactly completely over Mike yet, and taking Matt home to Hawkins with me would have felt a little bit too… soon for me?

“I don’t know,” I continued, “I… I just… I want to make sure the guy I bring home for holidays is someone I’m one hundred percent serious about. And I’ve only been dating him for, like, less than a month, not to mention he’s my first boyfriend ever! Cut me some slack!”

“So I guess you could say that this Matt is out of your… Wheelhouse,” Jonathan muttered, and El snorted. He just had to go there, didn’t he?

“Hmm,” Dad stroked his beard in thought. “I wonder if that tall glass of water of yours is back in town yet.”

“No, please, not this again,” I whined, putting my head in my hands as discussion about Mike Wheeler broke out at the dinner table. This had been a common occurrence throughout all of high school. Everyone in my family had convinced themselves that Mike reciprocated my feelings, and that we would eventually get together.

El and Jon teased me endlessly whenever I came home from Mike’s place, and forced me to recount every single second we’d spent together. Mom was a meddler; she’d always find ways to get Mike over to our house for family meals, and made it a point to emphasize the word family with the implication that he was a part of it. When Mike asked me to senior prom, that was the icing on the cake for Dad; I think he even made a chart after that. Dad was both my biggest cheerleader and my biggest comfort, especially when I told him about what happened after I found the letters.

But that chapter was over.

I cleared my throat, and everyone stopped talking, turning to face me. “Matt is really great, guys,” I said in a low voice. “And yeah, he’s not Mike, but… at least give him a chance, will you? I’ll bring him home during Spring Break, and you guys can meet him then.”

The fall semester had finally come to an end, and of course, we had to party about it. Matt had arrived at my dorm room to pick me up, and when Aaron noticed us kissing in the doorway, he had more than a few choice words to say to and about us. I’d played it off like I usually did, claiming it wasn’t a huge deal, but I had been dealing with Aaron’s bullshit for months now. It was like he was an ice pick, chipping away at my soul as if to say, “Let’s see how much verbal abuse Will can take before he shatters!” This was the breaking point for me. So when we got to the party, I drank. And drank. And drank.

I’d somehow lost track of Matt’s whereabouts, and found myself standing in an alley next to the building where the party was going on. There was a payphone stationed near the entrance of the alley, so I decided to take a little trip there and use the rest of my spare change to make a phone call.

“Hello?”

Was that Mom? Holy shit, it was Mom! I knew she was small, but I didn’t know she could fit into a pay phone! How did she know I was there?!

Oh, wait, I thought, I called her. She isn’t actually inside the pay phone, idiot… Why did I call her again?

“Hello?” I heard her ask again. Fuck, I already forgot she was on the phone.

“Mooooom. Mommy. Hi,” I slurred, leaning against the wall. I thought right then that I’d have been perfectly content melting directly into the concrete.

“Will,” Mom said, her voice getting all hushed and concerned, “Are you okay?”

“Yup!” I proclaimed to the empty alley. My voice echoed all the way down to the other end. “I’m faaaaantastic. Just a lil’ drunk, though.”

“I can hear that, honey.”

“Is Dad there?” I asked, wrapping the metal cord around my wrist. I briefly considered what it would be like if I ever decided to introduce handcuffs into mine and Matt’s sex life, and I swore I gave myself heart palpitations just by thinking about it.

“Dad is passed out on the couch and snoring like a trucker,” Mom replied, pulling me out of my filthy, filthy thoughts. “Why? Do you want to talk with him?”

“No,” I shook my head, looking around to make sure I wasn’t holding up a line or something. I most definitely wasn’t. “I just wanted to make sure I didn’t… I don’t know, ruin your night or something. Fridays are usually your movie nights.”

“Oh, we already watched our movie a few hours ago, some easily forgettable rom-com.” I could hear my mom’s smile as she spoke. I loved seeing my mom so happy ever since she married Dad. It was like she’d been brought back to life. “Now I’m just reading in the big blue arm chair, and so it’s just you and me.”

“Perfect,” I said, turning around and leaning my forehead against the brick and mortar in front of me, “Cuzzz I gotta-lotta-say.”

“... You sure you’re okay?” Mom asked, and I hummed in substitution of a “yes.”

“I’m suuurrreee,” I closed my eyes and grinned at the sound of my drawn-out syllables, but they snapped open again at the memory of standing in my old living room being yelled at by a very similarly-sounding drunken voice. “An’ I promise ‘mnot an alcoholic. I don’t wannanduhlidah,” I said, and lifted my hand up, extending my index finger to emphasize my point. I heard my mom lightly snicker on the other end of the line.

“Can you repeat that?” she asked me. “I’m having a little bit of a hard time understanding you.” Fuck. I must have been really drunk for her to not have understood me. God, I really was turning into my–

“Hmm… d’ya think I’ll end up like Lonnie?”

“Baby, are you kidding me? You are nothing like Lonnie.”

“He usedta drink a lot. A looooootttttt. Remem…emm…mer? An’ he alwaysssaid I’ll never be a man. He called me a fairy. A fa—“ I felt my voice crack as emotions took over my psyche, and I silently cursed myself for still crying over my dad over a decade later.

“Will. I want to make myself very clear,” my mom told me, and I stood up a bit straighter. Unlike me. “He’s less than half the man that you are. You are an incredible, talented, sweet young man. Being gay doesn’t negate any of the great qualities you have.”

“I’m a teeerrrible person,” I said, and mouthed along with my mom’s predictable reply.

“You are not a terrible person.”

“But what about what I did to Mike?” I whined.

“You did what you needed to do to protect yourself, baby. He’ll understand that eventually.”

“But what if I made a misssTAKE?”

“Only time will tell. It’s never too late to call him.”

“Yeah.” I looked up and noticed that at one point or another, Matt had joined me in the alley. How much of the conversation had he heard? Hopefully not too much. “Hey, mom?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, honey,” Mom replied. “Now make sure to go hydrate. Stay safe, okay?”

I nodded, realized that she couldn’t see me nodding, and provided verbal confirmation this time around with an, “Okie. Byeeeee.” I was so drunk. I hung up before turning to face my boyfriend. “Hey, babe,” I greeted him with a shit eating grin on my face. He was so so cute. Adorable. Gorgeous. Hot. Sexy. Edible. “Where have you been? You having a good time?”

“I’ve spent the past fifteen or so minutes looking for you!” Matt said, scuffing the soles of his Converse against the gravel that lined the sides of the alley. “Was that actually your mom?”

Well, duh, I thought. Who else would I call ‘mom’? Well, besides Steve, obviously. “Yeah! She said to say hi to you for her, by the way.” That was a total lie, but it would keep the tone light.

Or so I thought, because Matt had one more question for me. It was the one question that I’d been dreading ever since we’d started dating. “Who’s Mike?”

I was way too intoxicated to have this conversation right now. I met Matt’s eyes for a second, shook my head and battled my way through a choked, “We used to be friends. But he’s dead to me now. You have nothing to worry about,” before keeling over and violently throwing up onto the ground.

“Alright, sweetheart, we’ve gotta get you back to the dorms. You’re absolutely wasted,” Matt coaxed me to stand up and threw one of my arms around his shoulders. “You mind if I ask Pete for backup? I don’t think I can get you home by myself.”

“You calling me fat, Winters?”

“I think we both know they don’t call you Buff Byers ‘cause you’re fat, Will.”

“Waiiit a minute, who told you about the Buff Byers thing?”

“I have my sources.”

A few minutes later, we’d successfully located Pete within the sea of people he’d been dancing with, and we had to bribe him with twenty dollars to get him to leave the party and help us out. We said goodbye to everyone else on our way out, but right before we reached the door, I recognized the song blasting from the PA system and shouted, “I fucking love this song!” The song in question was “There is a Light That Never Goes Out,” by The Smiths. I happily drawled along with the lyrics to the song as my friend and boyfriend practically carried me down the street and back to the dorms. The singing didn’t stop when we reached my dorm hall, or when they dragged me up the stairs, or even when they fished through my pockets for a solid five minutes, trying to find my keys to let us in.

“And if a tennn tonnn truuuck… kills the both of us… To die by your siiide, well, the pleasure, the privilege is miiine,” I murmured the last chorus, getting a bit emotional as I watched Matt take off my Vans and help me into bed. He was too kind to me. I didn’t deserve it.

“Vecna would’ve had a field day with you…” I sighed, which resulted in a confused chuckle from my boyfriend. My sweet, sweet boyfriend who had no idea about what I’d been through, or the damage I was capable of. So much for my NDAs. I could just blame it on the alcohol if he asked about it later. Matt tucked me in under my comforter, brushing my bangs off my forehead and pressing a kiss there.

“Alright, lover boy, sleep tight.”

I was in the passenger seat of a car, and the road was dark, save for the headlights that lit the road in front of me. I looked down at my hand, which was being held by a very familiar and large hand. My eyes lifted up to see Mike in the driver’s seat, tapping the steering wheel with his fingers to the beat of some synth pop song that was playing out of his car radio.

“Mike?” A smile graced his features as I said his name. He didn’t take his eyes off the road as he rubbed a thumb over the top of my hand. What the hell?

“Yeah, baby?” This was pure insanity. There was no way he’d actually called me–

“... Baby?”

“What is it, love?” Mike replied so casually that I wanted to scream. But I pushed my emotions back down, settling back into the passenger seat and pretending like this was a totally normal occurrence.

“... Nothing,” I muttered, the fingers of my right hand picking at one of the rips on the knee of my jeans. “It’s just…”

“Will, we’ve been together for, what, five years now. Don’t tell me you’re uncomfortable with me calling you ‘baby.’”

Five years. Jesus Christ. “No. No, you’re fine,” I said.

“Good,” Mike grinned before bringing our joined hands to his lips to kiss the back of my hand. “I love you.” My head was spinning.

“I love you, too,” I heard myself say without even thinking about it. Okay, this is officially a dream, I thought. This is way too good to be true.

We continued on down the seemingly endless road for a few more miles before I spoke up again. “So… where are we going?”

“Heaven,” Mike replied.

“You’re funny,” I deadpanned, “No, really, where are we going?”

“Heaven,” Mike repeated. I felt a little bit guilty when I found myself staring at this dream version of Mike, trying my best to commit him to memory. “I mean it, Will. To die by your side… it’d be such a heavenly way to die.” That sounded familiar. Where was that line from again?

“Wait, what?” I asked, but before Mike could clarify, he was pressing his foot as hard as he possibly could onto the gas pedal, accelerating until the speedometer was essentially useless. Within seconds, he’d sent the car plummeting off the edge of the— cliff??— we’d been driving alongside the entire time.

The car flipped with a likeness to an Olympic gymnast, and I heard the sound of bones cracking above the faint background music that was still playing. I’d always wondered about that kind of scenario– if someone got into a fatal car accident; would the music continue to play? Apparently so, considering that the song “Stayin’ Alive,” by the Bee Gees was still playing. That song should never be played in a car for this exact reason; the irony is simply too cruel.

The car eventually gave up on trying to be a flying trapeze artist and settled in a diagonal position with the wheels in the air. Smoke from the undercarriage of the car traveled through the air vents and filled my lungs, and I struggled to breathe. But I didn’t even care; I had to check on Mike, see if he was okay.

He was not. I turned to my left side, and screamed in horror at the sight of Mike’s bloodied, mangled body sprawled across the dashboard, broken glass pricking his bare arms. Wait… there was no way his arm could be way over there and still be– oh my god. Mike’s arm. It had been ripped off his body. Holy shit. Mike’s arm was–

“Mike,” I forced out amidst my heaving breaths. “Michael, can you hear me?” I reached out and smacked him in the face in an attempt to wake him up. Please don’t be dead. “Michael James, if you don’t fucking respond to me right now I’m gonna–”

“Relax, Will. I’m still here.” Using his middle name always did work like a charm.

I let out a high-pitched sob in relief. “Don’t scare me like that.”

“I’m sorry,” Mike said quietly, his own breathing labored. He glanced down at his arm and whispered something along the lines of Would you look at that, my arm is gone, but I couldn’t exactly tell; his speech was starting to sound garbled, as if he was choking on blood. He coughed a bit out, and I watched it dribble down his chin, proving my hypothesis correct. He was going to die without immediate medical attention.

“Come on, let me–” I went to undo my seatbelt, but realized that my limbs had stopped working. “... I can’t move,” It was most likely a severed spinal cord. “Mike, I can’t move.” I couldn’t move, and the last time I’d ever touched Mike was in the form of a slap in the face.

“Me neither, baby,” Mike laughed. His arm was quite literally torn off his body, yet he still found the will within himself to laugh. Maybe he was in shock, and the adrenaline had numbed his pain receptors. I wasn’t sure. But what I was sure of was that this dream needed to end. It was getting a bit too real.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere, Mike! We’re gonna fucking die out here if someone–”

“Shh. We’re okay,” Mike whispered, closing his eyes as he spoke. “We’ve got each other, right?” Crazy together. Deranged together. Batshit insane together.

Dead together.

“...Right,” I shut my own eyes, but was only able to for about two seconds before Mike was hacking up blood. I watched as it splattered across the surface of the shattered windshield. “We’re really gonna die, huh?”

“All that matters is that I’m dying with the love of my life by my side,” Mike muttered, all of the color slowly draining out of his face. “The pleasure– no, the privilege– is mine.” I watched his head loll to the side as the blood loss and lack of oxygen to his brain caused his heart to stop beating.

I was startled by the sound of someone gasping, and paused when I realized that the sound was coming from me. I tried to catch my breath, lifting a hand to my heart to try and ground myself with my heartbeat. I felt the familiar sensation of tears pricking the corners of my eyes, and I shut them tightly, hoping the image of Mike’s severed arm would eventually fade.

“You okay?” I heard from across the room, and I squinted my eyes to see my roommate sitting up in bed. Why did he care? He hated me. He’d aimed slurs at me all the way down the hallway when Matt had come to pick me up for the party earlier. What changed?

“Uh… yeah. Yeah, I’m fine, thanks,” I forced out, turning away from him and facing the front of my body towards the wall. I just needed to think of a good memory and play it out on a loop in my head to fall back asleep. I’d done it before.

A strong hand belonging to Aaron met my shoulder, and I gasped at the sudden contact. How had he gotten over to my side so quietly? Why was he over here at all? Why was he touching me like that? “You don’t sound fine,” Aaron whispered, his mouth close enough to my neck that the tendrils at the nape stood straight up. There was a sinking feeling in my stomach; something felt wrong. “No, really, I’m fi–”

Before I could even process what was happening, his hand shifted down my arm and firmly grasped my wrist. “What are you doing? Stop it,” I told him, and shook my arm in an attempt to get him off of me, but that only ignited something in him, because he pushed me from where I’d been laying on my side and onto my stomach, straddling me and holding me down. “Please stop. Please stop. Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop–”

He grabbed my other wrist and held both of them in one of his hands, as he forced my head into my pillow by my neck with the other to shut me up. He leaned down so his nose was buried in my hair, and I writhed in his grip as he inhaled. “I can make you feel better, Will,” he ghosted his lips over my ear. “Just stay quiet, and we won’t have any problems.” This could not be happening. It had to be another nightmare.

But I already knew the truth; I was wide awake.

The next few weeks were a blur. Aaron left and hadn’t come back after he raped me that night. I didn’t leave my room. I bailed on my date night with Matt over the weekend. He asked me over the phone at one point if I was planning on returning home for Hanukkah, and I glanced at my calendar for a moment of contemplation, noticing that the first two days had already passed before giving him a halfhearted, “Nah. I’ve already missed the first two days, and wouldn’t be able to catch up. I’m just gonna… stay here, I guess.”

That was a horrible idea, because the next thing I knew, my mother was in my dorm room, the expression on her face reading as a combination of disappointment and worry. “Hi, Mom,” I greeted her in a weak voice, and she merely shook her head, stomping over to my bed and whipping out a fucking stethoscope from her purse– courtesy of Owens, I assumed.

Despite my protests of being fine, she pressed her hand to my forehead before pressing the stethoscope to my heart, then to my back to hear my lungs. She dropped the stethoscope back into her purse and squeezed both of my shoulders, her eyebrows nearly becoming one with how hard she was frowning. “William Jacob Byers, you tell me what’s going on right now. Skipping Hanukkah without any call or explanation?!” I was in deep shit. She helped me pack up my things and drove us back to Hawkins that same day.

I didn’t tell my mom exactly what had happened, but did confess that I had been in a depressive state of being for the past few weeks following something traumatic that happened to me. Thankfully, she didn’t press me in regards to the topic of said trauma, but instead made an appointment with my old Upside Down therapist, Judith. I went to see her the day after I got home. Judith was a great therapist. I was so often the listener in my day-to-day life, but she took the approach of “you talk, I nod and give advice when you want it,” so it felt great to have the opportunity to rant about my problems and get validation from a sweet elderly lady who wore her own hand-knitted sweaters.

When I told Judith about what had happened with Aaron, she’d asked me if I told my family or Matt about it. I said no, I hadn’t. She asked why, and I admitted I was just afraid of my family becoming overbearing like they had been when I was a kid, and I was terrified of losing Matt over something I hadn’t been able to control. She suggested that if I couldn’t tell my family, I should at least tell my boyfriend when I was ready, as it wasn’t fair to him to continuously cancel our plans and keep him in the dark. I thought back to the last time we spoke, where he’d expressed feeling like he’d done something wrong when he hadn’t done anything wrong at all.

My mom had also managed to arrange weekly sessions over the phone for when I went back to Chicago. Recovery isn’t linear, as Judith often said. She was right. And in order to begin recovery, I needed to take that first step. So I spoke with Matt on the phone that night. He confessed to having called my mom, and was surprised when I wasn’t angry about it. I actually thanked him, because if it weren’t for my mom, I probably would’ve still been rotting away in my bed back in Chicago. When he asked me why I was depressed, I broke down crying at first, but found enough strength in myself to tell him the truth about what Aaron had done to me.

“I’m gonna kill that son of a bitch,” he’d said. “And as soon as you get back, we’re going to move you into my place. Riley’s moving Kate in after break, too. But you cannot go back to living with that asshole.”

Right before we ended the call, I wrote his phone number and address information down on a post-it. “I’ll see you in a few weeks,” Matt had told me. “I love you.”

“Bye,” I whispered, hanging the phone back up on the wall.

I prayed to whatever higher powers existed that my friends would just fucking give up already on trying to get Mike to hang out with us. For the past few months, the Party had been updating me on Mike’s whereabouts– or lack thereof– as he’d essentially fallen off the grid. I wasn’t particularly surprised, because I understood why he cut me off, but then again, why had everyone else been lumped in with me on Mike’s Do Not Interact list?

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” I asked hesitantly.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Max countered, looking up from her and El’s joined hands, where she’d been painting El’s nails a shade of deep purple. I shrugged, not sure how to go about explaining why I was discouraging them from contacting our…. no, their friend.

“I don’t know,” I muttered, glancing back down at my sketchbook, where Mike’s left eye had begun to take shape on the page. I resisted the urge to cringe at myself. “Just… don’t expect much from him.”

“Believe me, man, I know,” Lucas said, slumping down entirely too forcefully onto the couch next to me with his cordless phone in his lap. “He never calls any of us anymore, we’re always the ones who have to reach out to him.”

“Which is why we’re calling him now,” Dustin reiterated the same sentiment that he’d been mulling over for the past half hour, pacing all the while. “We’re useless to Mike if we don’t at least try.”

“Okayyy,” I shrugged all of their ignorantly charged hope off my shoulders. “But as long as I’m in the picture, you won’t have any luck getting him into the same room with us. So don’t say I didn’t warn you when he declines.”

“What happened between you two, anyway?” Dustin stopped pacing and adjusted his MIT hat. I really hoped his new Thinking Cap™ was… faulty, or something, so he wouldn’t have any chance of figuring out the truth.

“Nothi–” I began, but El started talking at the same time as me, leaving me unable to keep her from saying:

“He and Will had a falling out.”

“El, for fuck’s sake, oh my–” I slapped a palm to my forehead in a combination of embarrassment and frustration. This was not how I’d wanted the Party to find out about this… in fact, I would’ve been completely content if they never found out at all and if Mike just… if he’d just… stayed away. I gulped at that sobering— and borderline concerning— thought.

“Over what? When? How? Spill!”” Dustin appeared in front of me, shaking my shoulders. He hesitated for a moment, gripping my shoulders a little tighter, and then letting go altogether before… petting my arms? I heard Lucas huff a laugh through his nose as he began dialing Mike’s number, which I subconsciously recited in my head as he pressed each key.

“On a completely different note,” Dustin retreated back to the bowl of Cool Ranch Doritos on Lucas’ kitchen table, “you have got to explain when and how you got so muscular! You’re, like, hot. You should go into, like, a bodybuilding competition. I’d vote for you.” El and Max burst out laughing. I shielded my face with my hand, a mild embarrassment quickly consuming me.

“Everyone shut up, I’m putting him on speaker,” Lucas announced, and I sighed, grateful that the conversation had officially been diverted away from The Fight. Not like my body composition was a better topic by any means, but I’d take what I could get.

“Hello?” Mrs. Wheeler’s voice came through on the other end of the line. I’d forgotten that Mike shared a single landline with his family, insisting that our walkies were immortal. Spoiler alert: No, they were not; they eventually died permanently back in 1988, rest their souls. May their memory be for a blessing.

“Hey Mrs. Wheeler, it’s Lucas. How are you?”

“Oh, Lucas! I’m doing okay, sweetie, thank you for asking! How’s… UCLA, right?”

“You remembered! I'm busy all the time, but it’s going well, Mrs. W.,” Lucas grinned. Max rolled her eyes as she muttered a quiet, “Kiss ass.”

“Well, I’m sure you didn’t call here to talk to your friend’s mom, so I’ll get Mike for you. One second,” she chuckled to herself. There was a brief moment of silence, and then–

“MICHAEL!” Mrs. Wheeler’s screeching voice came through clear as a bell, and the rest of us had to hold in our laughter. “LUCAS IS ON THE PHONE!” She’d accidentally covered the wrong end of the receiver. We heard the low thump of footsteps down the stairs, a bit of shuffling as the phone changed hands, and a quiet thanks, mom before–

“Hello?”

And suddenly, I couldn’t feel a thing. Fuck.

“Mike!”

“It’s been ages, bro!”

“Where have you been?”

“... Heeeyyy guys,” the all too familiar voice of Mike Wheeler came through the speaker, and I had to refrain from curling up on the floor and melting into a puddle of tears. I forgot how much I missed his voice. However, it sounded slightly hoarse, probably due to talking to the point of overuse, or having just woken up… at four in the afternoon? No, overuse sounded more reasonable; Mike had never been a quiet person. Shutting the fuck up simply wasn’t in his vocabulary.

“It’s good to hear you’re alive and well, man,” Lucas said.

I think I was the only one who made out the sarcasm-laced laugh on Mike’s end: “Hmmh… yeah. So… what’s up?”

“Your dick,” Matt’s voice offered up in my head. I shoved my boyfriend’s vulgar humor into the furthest corner of my mind, because the last thing I needed to think about right now was Mike’s dick. Not like I’d thought about it prior to this. Well… not very often.

“We’re hanging out at my place right now, and we wanted to see if you feel like making the trek across the vast expanse of our lawns to join us!” Lucas replied.

There was a moment of silence on Mike’s end, followed by a shaky exhale. “... Is he gonna be there?”

Lucas furrowed his eyebrows. “Who?”

“I think you know who I mean, Lucas.” I pointed at myself with a look that screamed I told you so, and Lucas’ eyes widened dramatically at the realization that I was, in fact, right. Mike wanted nothing to do with me.

“... Yeah,” he said in a low voice with a likeness to a confession, not once breaking eye contact with me. I was not going to be let out of this one easily.

“Yeah no, I’ll pass. Thanks, though.”

“Are you s—” Lucas began to protest.

“Bye, guys,” Mike cut him off before promptly hanging up, leaving everyone else’s jaws on the floor. And then… all eyes on me. Understandably.

“He’s been like this since August,” Dustin was the one to start talking. He looked rather accusatory as his eyes narrowed, and I felt my stomach fall out of my ass. “So… whatever you did must have really fucked him up.”

“Hey!” I put my hands up, “What makes you think I was the one who did something?!”

“Y-yeah,” Lucas added on, “like, maybe Mike did something to… I don’t know. Whatever happened between you two, though, it’s made him really distant. I think something is seriously wrong.” I suddenly felt the air in the Sinclairs’ living room run cold, and… looked up to see Max adjusting the thermostat. I would never get used to the concept of central air, even after having it in my own house for years.

“What do you mean?” El asked, her voice quiet.

“Okay, for instance, you know how Mike’s a talker?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Well, that Mike is gone, because phone conversations between us never make it past three and a half minutes,” Lucas said, his eyes trained on the floor as he spoke. “It’s all hey bro, how are you doing, good, good, how’s school, great, I’m busy actually, can I call you at some other point and we can catch up, yeah sure talk soon. The end. And then he never calls me back.”

“Yeah, he’s been short with me, too,” Dustin added. “And that’s saying something, because that man is a fucking skyscraper.”

“You must know something, Will,” Max said from where she stood, returning the focus of the conversation back onto me. Honestly, I was starting to get a bit frustrated. I’d obviously played a pretty large role in Mike’s downward spiral, and it was eating away at me with every new second that passed. But at the same time, I thought my friends would take the news of our falling out as a sign to not press me about him.

“I really don’t, actually,” I replied, “and I’m kind of confused as to why this is my problem.”

“Woah, Will, calm down, I didn’t mean to make you get defensive,” Max said, her eyes wide, probably surprised at my blatant apathy to the situation. “It’s just that you two were so close for years, and I thought… I thought maybe you were just trying to protect him, or something.”

That was fair. “Right,” I whispered, and closed my eyes for a moment. “I��m sorry for snapping. I’m just–” I opened my eyes back up, “I’m tired of talking about Mike. He’s not gonna change, so why are we still trying?” I was nervous for a moment that I’d pushed a bit too hard attempting to move on from the current conversation, but was relieved when everyone nodded in agreement.

“That’s a very good point,” Lucas said. “Let’s change the subject.”

“Yeah, let’s change the subject…” El trailed off, sending a mischievous smirk my way. “Will got a boyfriend.”

I was going to murder my sister. I knew she meant well, but… I was going to murder her.

“Boyfriend?!” everyone shouted at the same time, shock spreading like wildfire across their faces. I nodded, and then the questions started hitting.

“What’s his name?”

“Where’s he from?”

“What is he majoring in?”

“We need details, Byers! Details!”

“Matt Winters, yes, the initials are purely coincidental, Winston-Salem North Carolina, and he’s a senior material studies major.”

“And he treats you well?” Lucas asked, and I turned to face him, pulling my sketchbook closer to my chest.

“More than well,” I replied earnestly. “He’s… he’s incredible, honestly. He’s sweet, he’s talented, he’s affectionate, he’s out of the closet…” Unlike someone else I knew. But they didn’t have to know that.

I didn’t need to continue listing adjectives for much longer, because my friends’ previously unison bumbling split into two separate subconversations. I heard Lucas and Max bickering about how Lucas never said things like that about Max and it’s a wonder she hadn’t dumped his ass for the fourteenth time by now; Lucas rebutted with the fact that all their friends knew her already and therefore didn’t need Lucas to elaborate upon her best qualities. Dustin turned to El and nudged her with his elbow. She turned to him, giving her full attention as he muttered quietly, but not quiet enough to the point that I couldn’t overhear, “Mike’s gonna be pissed.” I watched my sister take in this information before she nodded with a tight grimace.

Mike’s gonna be pissed.

I let out a shaky breath I hadn’t been aware that I’d been holding, and looked down at my hands, which had somehow become fists in my lap. Mike’s gonna be pissed. But I was finally happy. I had Matt, and he was a better boyfriend than I could have ever asked for. Mike’s gonna be pissed. So what? He messed with my head, he deserved it. Mike’s gonna be pissed.

“Hey, um, I’m going to the bathroom, I’ll be right back,” I said to no one in particular, and ignored everyone’s suddenly concerned voices as they faded into background noise. I closed the bathroom door a bit harder than necessary, and put a hand over my mouth as I began to hyperventilate. Mike’s gonna be pissed. Mike’s gonna be pissed. Mike’s gonna be pissed.

I leaned forward and vomited into the toilet.

I mounted my bike and knocked the kickstand up with my foot, leaning my weight onto the right pedal as I biked down the empty streets of Hawkins. It had been a long day at Melvald’s; I’d been tasked with running the store for the weekend on account of it being my parents’ wedding anniversary, and my dad had planned a surprise trip for my mom to Lake Superior. On any other occasion, it would have been fine. Working at Melvald’s wasn’t the problem, rather, it was my last week of working there before I left for college wherein lied the issue.

It was the day after The Fight. “Can you grab some coin rolls from the back, honey?” my mom had asked me from the counter. I nodded, put down the notebooks I’d been stocking, and headed to the supply closet, turning up the volume on my walkman as I went. The lyrics of Billy Squier’s “My Kinda Lover,” infiltrated my mind as I grabbed the coin rolls and walked back to the counter, where… oh no. Mike Wheeler was walking down the sidewalk in the direction of our store.

“Fuck,” I whispered to myself as I approached my mom. She looked up at me, her smile fading when she noticed the panic in my expression. “Mom?” I felt my voice waver, “Mom, hide me. Please.”

“What? Why–” she asked, but there was no time to explain. Mike was mere feet away from the door. He’d probably fucking seen me by now.

“Just do it,” I begged. “Please.” She thankfully didn’t press me any further and gestured for me to duck below the register. I did so as quickly as I possibly could, and held my breath as I waited for the little bell above the door to ring. And it did.

“Hey, Mike!” I heard my mom’s voice above me, and I lowered my head into my hands. What the hell was I even doing? Why was I such a coward? I couldn’t even face Mike, while he’d come all the way to my mom’s store, probably looking for—

“Hey Ms. Byers…” I heard Mike say, “Is Will here by any chance? I need to talk to him.” He definitely sounded like he hadn’t slept last night. I hadn’t, either. I couldn’t. Not with the feeling of Mike’s lips on mine existing for the sole purpose of haunting me. I wanted so badly to stand up, jump the counter, and pull Mike into me so hard that it would send us crashing to the floor so hard that we’d get permanent amnesia and therefore erase the horrors of the past twenty four hours from our memories.

“I’m so sorry, sweetie, he left a little while ago.”

I heard Mike sigh. “Is he headed home? Or–”

“I’m honestly not sure, he never tells me anything these days.”

“Well, when you see him next, can you…” His voice broke– and so did my heart. “Can you please tell him to call me?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“Thank you. I hope you have a great rest of your day.”

“You… too,” my mom said slowly, and I heard the bell ring once more as Mike left the store. Out of nowhere, I felt my mom’s foot lightly kicking my shin, and I knew then that I was in trouble. I stood up to see her leaning against the counter with her arms crossed.

“What in the world happened that could possibly make you want to hide under a counter to avoid your best friend of thirteen years?”

“Listen, it’s complicated–”

“You love Mike!”

“Yeah, and that’s the problem, Mom!” I broke down then, my voice dissolving into quiet sobs. She pulled me down to her level and rubbed my back comfortingly, but I didn’t stop talking. “I love him. I love him so much it hurts. And I’d just come to terms with him not feeling the same, but yesterday, I found twenty six love letters to me that he’d written over the past two years– yeah, according to the letters, it turns out he’s apparently gay and in love with me, what the hell are the odds of that happening– and when I brought them to him asking for answers, he just kissed me.”

Mom pulled away then, her eyebrows furrowing across her forehead. “He kissed you?! Wow! Isn’t that a good th–”

“No!” I groaned, running a hand through my hair. “No, it’s not a good thing, because it isn’t true! He doesn’t love me. He just said he did, and he says a lot of things–”

“He was probably just scared, baby! Remember how nervous you were to come out to me and Dad? Besides, you know he hasn’t ever really been the best at expressing his feelings. He most likely wrote those letters because he was too afraid to tell you.”

I shrugged. “Yeah. Um, you’re probably right.”

This flashback, in combination with what I’d overheard the last time I hung out with the Party, had me so far gone into a mental breakdown that I thought I was going to explode. Mike’s gonna be pissed. Mike’s gonna be pissed. Mike’s gonna be pissed. I was distraught. I couldn’t go home like this without Jonathan and El asking me a thousand and one questions, so I decided to take a little detour to the park.

“We stealthily made it out of my window and down onto the ground without dying, and then we grabbed our bikes before making our great escape. We biked out into the night, wind whipping through our hair, and I just felt so free. And for a second, just a split second, I imagined what it would be like if we were together, and we were sneaking off to make out in the woods or something. That would be so romantic.”

I eventually reached the playground of my childhood. My eyes drifted to the swingset; it looked so small and rickety now, compared to how I used to imagine it as a castle when I was a kid. I sat down on one of the swings, getting used to the feel of the hard plastic pushing into my sides. My friends weren’t kidding. Long gone was the skinny kid I used to be; I really had built up more muscle than I knew what to do with. I took a deep breath and propelled myself off of the wood chips by my heels. As the cool wind blew through my hair, emotions ran high as it hit me that I had grown up.

“Hi, I’m Michael! Do you want to be my friend?” “Yes!” I felt a few stray tears escape my eyes, and pulled a hand off one of the chains to brush them away. I continued swinging for a few more minutes, hoping that it would calm me down, but I just got even sadder as time dragged on. I met Mike on these swings, I thought. We were best friends. I loved him. Now that we don’t talk… he’s just a ghost. I jumped off the swings and took a few seconds to reorient myself, glancing down at my shoes.

But then, I heard a faint rumbling across the pavement, and looked up from the ground to see a tall figure skateboarding down the sidewalk. Oh my god. It was Mike. Mike was here. Mike was… out of the house? Oh my god, Mike was skateboarding at night in my direction. I felt panic rise into my throat and suddenly felt the urge to throw up again. I had to hide. Fuck, I really had to hide, because Mike was getting closer and closer and I was in no condition to talk to him.

I dashed across the playground, trying my best to stay as quiet and as low to the ground as possible in order to not be seen. I managed to reach the metal slide and crouched behind it, raising my head the slightest bit upwards so I could see over the edge of it. Hawkins still hadn’t replaced that damn slide, even after all the times my friends and I had burnt our asses in the ninety degree summer heat throughout our elementary school days.

As Mike approached the playground, he skidded his skateboard to a stop and paused to look around, probably making sure he was the only one there. His head turned in my direction, and I prayed my reflexes were quick enough as I escaped his line of sight. They thankfully seemed to suffice as I heard the wheels of his board begin to roll once again. I peeked over the edge of the slide like the creep I was and watched Mike skate in circles around the basketball court. His long black hair was covered by a beanie, but was still long enough to flow gracefully behind him. God, he was beautiful. Just as beautiful as I remembered. I missed him. You know what? Screw it, I’m gonna talk to him, I thought. I’m going to make things right between us. Against my better judgment, I stood up and made my way over to Mike.

He caught a glimpse of me in his peripheral vision and had to do a double take before jumping off his board to walk over to me. We both watched it roll away and fall off the pavement and into the grass before turning back to each other.

“Will,” he was the first to speak. It felt like a whole century had passed since I’d last heard him say my name, and I’d forgotten how much I loved hearing it.

“Mike.” I looked up at Mike then, taking in the entirety of his appearance. He had dark circles under his eyes, and judging by his oily scalp, he looked like he hadn’t showered in days.

“How have you been?” he asked me. Typical Mike, I thought, always wondering how I’m doing. Then again, he was just asking a simple question found in most conversations, I was nothing special.

“I’m doing alright,” I replied, shoving my hands into my jean pockets. “How are you?”

“Do you really want to know the answer to that?”

He’s been like this since August, so… whatever you did must have really fucked him up.

“... Not particularly, no.”

We stood there for a few seconds in silence, unsure of what to say. I decided to speak first this time around. “So… how are things in Indy?”

Mike scoffed then, closing his eyes tightly in frustration. “You know, the least you can do is fucking apologize.” He was right; I’d left things on a horrible note, and had yet to mention anything about our fight.

“I know, Mike, I’m s–”

“No,” Mike cut me off, his gaze hardening. “You’re only sorry because I prompted it.”

“Says the one who expected me to just accept the fact that he was in love with me and not question his integrity after finding twenty six love letters in his bedroom.”

“You shouldn’t have read those.”

“You shouldn’t have left them out!”

“Well, I was a fucking dumbass, what else is new?”

“Well, so am I, then, because I had finally convinced myself that you didn’t love me, just for you to go and turn my whole world upside down!” Neither of us even noticed or reacted to the unintentional pun.

“I do love you, Will,” Mike’s voice softened as it always did, and he took a step closer to me as he spoke. “I do. What do I have to do to make you believe me?”

“Kiss me,” I replied.

Mike groaned at that, rolling his eyes as he threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. “What do you mean, kiss me? I did kiss you that day, and you–”

“But you only did it because I prompted it,” I shot Mike’s words right back at him, and he could only blink. “If you really love me, you’ll prove it to me by kissing me for real. No leading me on and letting me down. No goddamn love letters. Just… kiss me.”

He took a deep breath then, his eyes meeting mine once again and his expression turning into a determined resolve. “You want me to kiss you for real?” Mike whispered, closing the remaining distance between us. “I’ll show you real.”

The sound of Mike’s skateboard violently smacking against the pavement brought me back to reality. I was still hidden behind the slide. I ran my hands over my face, rubbing my fingertips against the corners of my eyes. I was so exhausted that my imagination had gone off the rails.

I needed to go get some sleep. But Mike was in the way of my route home, and I was not prepared to pass him on my bike just to get stopped and forced to have an awkward, real-life encounter with him. What if I just… took the next street over? I thought to myself. That could work. But… where did I leave my… bike. My bike rested on its side against the swingset, clear on the other side of the park. I’d forgotten how far I’d wandered away from it, and wondered briefly how Mike couldn’t have seen it yet. I glanced back over to the basketball court at… Mike. Who wasn’t there.

“You stalking me, Byers?” I heard from above me, and even though my mind had deducted that that he had spotted me behind the slide, my heart still jumped at the sight of Mike looming over me. I stood up, brushing the accumulated woodchips off my knees from kneeling.

“You caught me, Wheeler,” I chuckled, and Mike smiled back.

“How have you been?” he asked me. Typical Mike, I thought, always wondering how I’m doing. Then again, he was just asking a simple question found in most conversations, I was nothing special.

“I’m doing alright,” I replied, shoving my hands into my jean pockets. “How are you?”

“Do you really want to know the answer to that?”

He’s been like this since August, so… whatever you did must have really fucked him up.

“I’m sorry,” I told him, rocking back and forth on my feet a few times. “All of this is my fault. It’s my fault you’re like this.”

“Yeah. It kind of is.”

“I shouldn’t have blown up on you like that. If I hadn’t, then maybe all of this could have been…” I faltered, and Mike shook his head.

“There was no avoiding it, Will,” he said. “I went about it all wrong. I shouldn’t have kissed you like that. I should have taken the time to explain to you–”

“But you did explain, that’s the thing,” I said. “I was just too caught up in my own anger and confusion to notice–”

“I don’t blame you for being angry and confused,” Mike told me, and I looked up to notice tears welling up in his eyes. “I was angry and confused at myself for my inability to tell you the truth about how I felt. It scared the shit out of me.”

I couldn’t help but reach up then, resting my hand against his cheek and swiping the tears away. He let out a small sniffle and lifted his eyes from the ground to meet mine. They say that the eyes are windows to the soul; the pain in his eyes sent me right back to that day of our mutual heartbreak, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I lifted my other hand to hold the other side of his face, and ran my thumbs over his cheeks once more before I—

Heard someone yell, “Ow, fuck!” knocking me out of my daze of delusion once again. I looked up and saw that Mike had fallen off his board, and was laying on the pavement on his back, unmoving. For a moment, I feared that he’d knocked himself out, but relief flooded my body when I saw him reach his hands up to his head and run his fingers through his hair with a groan. He didn’t get up, though, so I hesitantly rose from my position on the ground and approached Mike slowly. He noticed my shadow and whipped his head in my direction, eyes wide. He looked stupified, unable to find the words to say to me. Not like I could have done any better.

I knelt down next to him, and couldn’t help it when my breath hitched. Mike looked gorgeous from this angle, in the moonlight, below me. I felt something primal within myself awaken, letting a low noise escape my throat as I let my body take over. I crawled a bit closer to Mike, reading his expression for any stop signs. And then… I pounced.

A shiver went down my spine, shaking me out of my hopefully last scenario. I wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but my knees were starting to hurt from crouching behind the slide. I pulled my hands off the rail of the slide to rub my freezing cold palms together.

“Goddamnit!” Mike shouted at the night sky, which had turned a light grey with the snow that had begun to fall over the park. I blinked a few stray snowflakes out of my eyes and pulled my hood up, preparing to sprint across the park, grab my bike, and go. All the cardio training I’d done over the past semester had to have been done for a purpose. And this was it.

I took a few deep breaths, about to make a run for it, when I heard a high pitched whine come from the direction of the basketball court. I took one last glance over to Mike, who was reaching into his pocket and pulling out… was that a flask? My suspicions were confirmed when he unscrewed the top and tipped his head all the way back as he proceeded to chug the whole thing in a few seconds. Oh god.

He’s been like this since August, so… whatever you did must have really fucked him up.

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istumpysk · 1 year ago

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I came across an anon of yours saying that ashford theory has been 'debunked' because they and a lot of other people believe george created Harry Hardyng as replacement of Robert Arryn for scrapping the five year gap.

First of all, I would want to know what purpose only Harry could achieve in Sansa's story that Robert couldn't because of younger age, that George felt the need to create a considerably older suitor? I understand all the bnfs get boners at the idea of Sansa getting married to Harry and staying in the Vale forever, but again the same could've been achieved with Robert too. Its not like Tommen isn't his age and not married to Margaery. In actuality, normal people know Harry is dying because of 1) the Young moniker and 2) Sansa's wish of him falling, and again Robert could've died in his place easily too, to 'free' Sansa.

And if the purpose of his creation in event of not following the five year plan, wasn't an older betrothed/husband for Sansa, what was it?

Problem with the fandom is that they put too much emphasis and focus on things we know nothing about. Like when or how George decided to scrap the five year gap plan. Its pure speculation that it was between 2000 and 2005. And it is even more speculation that he had no plans to introduce Harry Hardyng before scrapping it, or that he was a last resort (which as I showed, there was no need of, as Robert, even five years younger, fulfills those purposes). Its the same with the original outline.

And there is too little focus on the actual canon, which is that Hardyng is a minor house with no other mention except in the Hedge Knight. Even if George DID create someone last minute, it is TOO much of a coincidence it just happened to be a Hardyng and that Sansa wishes for him to have an accident with his horse in the tourney like Humfrey (his counterpart) did in the Ashford tourney. In her latest chapter in 2015. Even if he did not intend it to be intentional, he sure seems to be retconning it. This is not even considering that all the other champions also share parallels with their Ashford counterparts:

Lyonel=Lion=Joffrey; Baratheon and Lannister champions defeat the maiden's brothers; Willas Tyrell is straight up called another Leo Tyrell; Valarr's father was named after Baelor the Blessed=Rhaegar was called another Baelor the Blessed. He himself is called a black prince with a white guardian=Jon.

George must be blind if he did not see any of this while writing it because one or two names similar, I can accept as coincidences, but ALL the champions have parallels with Sansa's suitors.

Well said, anon.

Let's address this head-on: the biggest problem with the Ashford theory is that the first person to discover it made a mess of it. Now, they wander the internet, asserting authority and attempting to undermine it, simply because they disagree with its clear conclusion.

The theory was so thoroughly botched that people think it can easily be tossed aside due to a technicality involving Robert Arryn or the tournament's disruption. As if that could ever be enough to dismiss the abundance of other similarities, many of which they're not even aware of.

Can you imagine the fandom insisting on any other theory being this airtight?

#stumpy ask #anon

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horizon-verizon · 6 months ago

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Emma is right, Daemon groomed his niece. It’s a known tactic of predators to show their marks pornography before assaulting them (dragging the young Rhaenyra through the brothel first)…I’m sure he never thought she would go and seduce Criston Cole, lmao!

But, in seriousness, it is still in effect now; how else would a Queen’s “consort” keep his head, much less his hand, after choking his Queen?

*EDIT 11/4/24*

GRRM already does make it a point to show that 13 yr old Dany getting impregnated, 15 year old Viserrra engaged to a man who could be her father and dying trying to live her last moments as a girl, AND Daemon messing w/Rhaenyra then getting the boot are all obviously bad things about this system--thus a critique of said political environments, but it's still does not mean Larra Rogare, Viserys I, Daemon, and a few others were necessarily bonafide "pedos" like Robert Baratheon, Craster, Walder Frey, or Aegon II bc...

it takes more than the presence of a marriage between 15 yr old and a 23 yr old or a mere relationship of such to rule one of them as an actual hand-rubbing "groomer" (although this particular label on Daemon fits more back in 111...he definitely was using her against Viserys) or a "pedo", bc of how marriages are an arranged affair AND these teens aren't as considered "adults" in ASOIAF--It's not a part of their conscious OR they were forced/socially pressured to marry

The boundaries are looser; again GRRM does criticize that, but he doesn't try to break away from the consequences of that by only writing characters who are closer in age fall in love or become closer or get into sexual relationships.

Example: He still has Dany have the much older and adult Daario as a lover so she can pursue her first self-determined relationship at her 15/16 years of age...which canonically she uses to heal even as she has her doubts about Daario's feelings for her. Perhaps he could have gotten her with one of her khalasar instead, like Jhoqo, but Dany is also still very much a teenager still and Daario was exciting and persistent when she wanted to feel desired. Daario is fine prostrating himself but not totally being her soldier like Jhoqo. Eventually, their relationship will not pan bc Daario's interest in her is still wrapped up more in her being a queen and she herself has the higher goal of freeing slaves, getting back her throne, later the Others, etc.--this doesn't mean that Daario wasn't a critical person in a particular point in her life or that she didn't love him. And all this is consequential to the sort of world she lives in and her particular circumstances.

*END OF EDIT*

Yes I can see where some people are coming from. A groomer do/would/could do that.

Grooming involves these:

physically or emotionally separate a victim from those protecting them and often seek out positions in which they have contact with minors

gaining the trust of a potential victim through gifts, attention, sharing “secrets” and other means to make them feel that they have a caring relationship and to train them to keep the relationship secret

will often start to touch a victim in ways that appear harmless, such as hugging, wrestling and tickling, and later escalate to increasingly more sexual contact, such as massages or showering together. Abusers may also show the victim pornography or discuss sexual topics with them, to introduce the idea of sexual contact

behaviors are not only used to gain a victim’s trust but often are used to create a trustworthy image and relationship with their family and community. Child and teen sexual abusers are often charming, kind, and helpful — exactly the type of behavior we value in friends and acquaintances

And show!Daemon does show her sexually exhibitive "content". He does turn the outing into a sexual "session" after she expressed frustrations with marriage to slowly coax her into engaging in sexual activity until he stops.

Here is the thing:

*EDIT 11/4/24* as grooming implies a primary objective to prey and I don't think that's that Daemon is trying to do so much as show her sex can be fun AND force Viserys to marry them *END OF EDIT*

Again, I do not take the choking scene at face value nor a lot of shit the show writers wrote not just for these two but Baela, Rhaena, Rhaenys, Criston, Alicent, even Viserys. Not enough for me to not be suspicious and questioning the entire story they present.

Still, too much of HotD feels "unreal", even worse to me and unworthy of really taking its characters at face value-- because:

this post

many of their own plot holes/logical inconsistencies that blow up the changes they made; some that could have been made sensical if they had written more for some characters or had more than 10 episode, had less time jump, did flashbacks, AND/OR had more hours in each episode--yes some of these are production problems or executive issues....doesn't mean that the story we're presented stops being inferior AND that some of the writers' choices weren't independently from their own brains...without an exec breathing down their necks (Condal/Hess/Sapochink's)

Baela and Rhaena are separated in the show and Corlys take the first one as a ward (doesn't happen nor would either Rhaenyra or Daemon allow that to happen without a fight, so we need to know how exactly this happened, bc Rhaenys still hates them for them supposedly killing Laenor AND the show makes as if Rhaena hasn't seen Rhaenys in a very long while or leaves the impression Rhaenyra is keeping her from Rhaenys when Rhaenys could very well get on Meleys and see Rhaena all she wants and Rhaena's boat trip to Driftmark is slower but still a relatively short distance...so why?

Daemon cruelty ignores or neglects Rhaena, and no amount of "he was disappointed" or "he was worried she'd experiences or of second son syndrome and he didn't know how to deal with that or help her out" for not having a dragon as a hatchling/in the cradle makes thia make sense when he, as the show states, is actually knowledgeable Abt dragons, Targs history, and bonds and shit, he'd know that MOST Targs bond with their dragons into their preteen, late teens and a few even into adulthood, like Viserys, himself, Aegon I, Aegon the Uncrowned, Maegor I, Laena....so how is this not an unnecessary and nonsensical attempt to asperge Daemon as a bad (more than he already was), really hypocritical dad who is not his suggested, daughter-affirming self as in the book?! And I pull this from how both Rhaena and Baela both became two of the most self possessed, confident, politically active women of their generation following a generation where Target women also enjoyed authority or prestige they previously did not without being conquerors?

Daemon was very loving and caring towards Laena in the canon. Unlike the show, he wrote a whole assed letter to Viserys asking him to accept him and Laena, dispense the exile order against him, so that Laena's twins (Baela and Rhaena) can grow in Driftmark. This is only after. A few months after the twins are in mind you. Meanwhile in the show, the girls are grown children of maybe 6-8, and Laena practically begs him to do the same and he ignores her and she tries to excuse his behavior to Rhaena!

While show!Rhaenyra is defiant even in that choking scene when she brings up how Viserys just never trusted Daemon with the prophecy, she is also made to be much more despondent and less...argumentative(?), more melancholic than what both GRRM's description of her to Amok AND the foreword of Dangerous Women anthology housing "The Princess and the Queen" shows. PLUS, how she very comfortably ignores, defies, gives up Daemon in the book as unlike an abuse victim does more than once.

Rhaenys is the total opposite of her self and they switched her and Daemon's attitudes or impressions of such in the show--Rhaenys wanted to immediately ambush KL with their dragons, Daemon is the one to practice caution.....AND BOTH OF THEM never denied that there would be some sort of battle or armed confrontation!

the choice to make the episode 1 tourney much more deadly than it actually needed to be

Aegon and Aemond, of all people, being allowed a more sympathetic writing and characterization when Daemon is written much worse than his suggested book self....they don't gaf or know much about real DV and how it develops,esp since physical DV doesn't just happen without the emotional and psychological steps of [and these don't all have to happen at the same time]: A) changes expectations or guidelines, thus keeping you guessing how to please them B) insists on spending all or the majority of your time together, cutting you off from friends and family, making fun of your interests in other activities C) constantly accuses you of sexual interactions with anyone in your life (friends, teachers, bosses, counselors, etc.). Accuses you of flirting; monitors how you look and what you wear D) pushes for instant closeness and does not allow relationship to grow at a pace that is comfortable to you [like, Partner praises you constantly and puts you on a pedestal. They want to live together immediately. Partner wants to care for your children and disciplines them early in a relationship (instead of honoring your role as their parent).] E) Partner expects others (and you) to live by their standards, yet he/she doesn’t live by them. F) always focuses on their own wants and needs. They ignore your wishes. G) easily angered, has rapid mood swings, unpredictable behavior; anger is out of proportion to the incident H) stereotypical beliefs about gender roles; insults past partners with sexist language along with ideas of them being "bad" women I) doesn’t accept responsibility for their actions

having Cole and Rhaenyra have sex so they could make her seem to be as close to predatory to Aegon, Cole more of a victim or completely helpless under her being a princess and he a Kingsuard (he isn't, not even in the show)

Laenor's male lover is not killed in a more believable setting of a tourney (in a publicly told, freak incident--this does not normalize constant death at medieval tourneys!) but Cole beats him out of clearly no cover of a tourney and licensed competition of arms, but at a wedding feast where Joffrey had guests rights....and Cole somehow escapes execution?! And we have a gay man treated worse than he was in canon, both Laenor AND Joffrey.

While people already do feel for him and understand his feelings, in the time jump of episode 6 Laenor looks less "sympathically selfish" (bc he is being selfish and he is trying to take advantage of his male privilege to go where he pleases) than if they had really developed that part of the reason why he wants to leave Rhaenyra behind is that he can't stay in the same space as his lovers killer, or have this open up a question of how much it figures into Laenor's own measure of his masculinity. How much does the allure of being a warrior/knight in a far off land have in measure to do with his helplessness or "failure" in Joffrey's death and how he approaches fatherhood?

AGAIN, show!Daemon IS an DV abuser, and that is my problem!!!! Because it isn't true of canon!!!--not for his sake necessarily but for Rhaenyra, his daughters, and their sons' sake and narrative roles in ASoIaF/pre-Daenerys. And it is a part of the writing Rhaenyra to be much less willing to defend herself for the sake of her father's, Aegon's, legacy // co opt Daenerys' narrative characterization (there is a good reason why bkRhaenyra is Daenerys' opposite). This storyline punishes Rhaenyra for marrying Daemon, when it was actually one of her better decisions AND she had a lot of power and authority over Daemon [@rhaenin-time HERE].

Also, check out these two posts: HERE and HERE

All of which is meant to fit into the show's "women are peace keepers of their inherently violent men" theme. Their anti-militaristic, anti-self focused women agenda. Their implication that you should not root for a woman if she uses war to defend herself or to gain polt all advantage and prestige either similar to or in defense of men doing the same. All to diminish how self assured BK!Rhaenyra was not just in her non-warrior, "high-femme" accepting but still wanting power self. The way they use Aegons prophecy is not just to give their Rhaenyra a sense of responsibility to her definition of leadership--which is a Daenerys thing, btw. Comparatively, BK!Rhaenyra might have been self focused, but at least she always stood up for herself, seems to always address others' confrontation head on, expressed her disdain (even in feast before Viserys dies), when others took or denigrated her for her gender. There was a way to show this without her completely demoralized, without her kids being in danger, without Daemon's presence.

There are more but these are my biggest reasons, but not my only one and I forgot something I noticed abt Laenor.....might add it later. So as I showed how the writing for this show is disingenuous and untrustworthy....

The "effect" that I more care about is now that this is the story that most audiences around the world will understand of the Dance and Rhaenyra.

Which tbh, GRRM already fumbled by making Rhaenyra too distant from her own war when he could have gone many routes that force the F&B writers to have to record stuff she hypothetically could have done during the war bc there'd be so many witnesses to her doing such. Of course this is her story; GRRM set the ground for it by not doing as an anon says:

GRRM in part wrote Rhaenyra as a litmus test for the readers’s misogyny but in my opinion it falls flat because he gets caught up in doing that and forgets to give Rhaenyra some dignity or respect as an individual character. And it’s honestly the same issue he has in the main series. Pathologizing motherhood in particular, esp. in relation to women who are also in politics while being mothers. Fathers are never “too mad with grief” to rule competently or make good decisions; only mothers are.

#asoiaf asks to me #rhaenyra and daemon #emma d'arcy #hotd brothel scene #hotd episode 4 #daemyra #asoiaf shipping #canon shipping #hotd ships #daemon targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen #hotd featurette #asoiaf writing #fire and blood writing #fire and blood

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dyns33 · 2 years ago

Text

The Ending

Last Morpheus x Hob!Reader. A bit hard to read, and with spoilers from the comics, careful.

Y/N Y/L/N couldn't die.

Not if she didn't want to.

Lord Morpheus repeated this to himself over and over as he continued to search for her everywhere. He refused to think that his sister might have changed her mind or that his immortal lover might have decided to leave without telling him.

Something else must have happened, and though it might be horrible, Dream told himself that he would find her, that she would be alive, and that he would help her get better, for as long as necessary.

She had told him about her long life, he had seen some of her nightmares. Y/N had experienced a lot of things, she was strong, smart. Everything would end well.

Her disappearance dated back to a few days now. If he hadn't learned to control his rage, Lord Morpheus would have punished Johanna Constantine for causing all this trouble. She had come to seek the help of Y/N and Hob for a dangerous mission, thinking that it would be better to be accompanied by people who could not die.

There are fates worse than death, Dream had once told Robert. You can be injured or captured.

It had happened to him soon after, like a premonition, and now Y/N might be stuck somewhere. Maybe she was being tortured, and if he didn't move fast enough, if she lost hope, then she might call his sister to end her suffering.

But no, she couldn't die, he refused that.

Despite his best efforts, traveling the waking world and dreams, dispatching Matthew and his most loyal subjects, he was unable to find her.

The Hecate didn't give him any help, answering with riddles and mocking him. Lost, he did something he hadn't even thought of doing when he was captured : he called his family. It wasn't as helpful as he would have hoped.

As always, Destiny couldn't do anything, saying whatever was supposed to happen would happen.

Death only reassured him, promising him that Y/N had not contacted her, and that if she did, she would take him with her to save his beloved. She looked strange, but said nothing.

Destruction didn't answer.

The twins were a little surprised by his request, savoring this moment, happy to see him so weak in their domains, desperate and in love.

"We'd be willing to help you just because we pity you and you finally seem to realize you're no better than us..." Desire began.

"... But we can't do anything for you. An ancient magic seems to have taken your lover." continued Despair. "She's too far from us. Sorry."

It was out of sheer politeness, knowing how susceptible she could be, that Dream went to Delirium. Poor Delirium, his youngest sister would probably not achieve more than the others had already done.

She jumped up when she saw him, saying that she had missed him, before saying a lot of nonsense, but listening all the same to the reason for his coming. Delirium looked serious for a moment, thinking hard, before jumping up again.

"I dON't KnOw wheRe Y/N Is. BUt I knOw whO I CAn Ask !"

"Come find me if your friend brings news." sighed Morpheus who wasn't really listening.

"He'S nOt MY fRIenD, BUt OkAY !"

A few hours later, someone showed up at the gate of the realm, and Matthew flew as quickly as possible to his master to tell him that Y/N had returned.

In an instant, Dream appeared beside her, hugging her, asking her if she was hurt, wiping the tears from her cheeks, touching her bloody hands.

"... I'm fine." she whispered without looking at him.

"Obviously not. If those who hurt you are not dead yet, I will find them and lock them in an eternal nightmare."

"Forget it, Morpheus. I don't want to talk about it."

"I cannot leave unpunished those who have dared..."

"Nobody hurt me." Y/N said more firmly, but still avoiding his gaze. "It's not my blood. I lost myself, in limbos. It was impossible to find my way, I was alone, and I was afraid of arriving in hell, or of dying without doing it on purpose. Then he... I do not want to talk about it."

"He ? Who is he ?"

Y/N initially refused to answer, continuing to cry, before falling to her knees and beginning to ask his forgiveness, as if she had committed a crime. The pleas came next, her love saying that she would understand that he hated her, that he never wanted to see her again, but that she had no choice. She was shaking, as if she was afraid of him.

"He asked me... He was so tired, so kind. His voice... His voice..." she sobbed, taking Morpheus's hands. "He had such a beautiful voice."

Then Dream understood. And after having focused his attention only on Y/N, he contemplated the universe and whispered the name of his son who was no longer there. That was what his sister had hidden from him. What his brother had meant.

Y/N was alive, and Orpheus was dead.

Delirium had had the idea of going to ask her nephew for help. She had never thought of it before, but he was a oracle, so he knew everything, and he didn't have to keep quiet like their big brother. She wanted to ask him where her dear other brother Destruction was, but Orpheus had smiled, saying that his uncle didn't want to be found, that there was more important matters to deal with at the moment, and that he wouldn't be here afterwards.

Using his link with the Limbos where he had lost Eurycype, he had found Y/N and he had guided her to the exit. He had, however, asked her for a favor.

"He said he wanted to join his wife. He couldn't stay like that anymore. He was already dead, or almost. He was staying for his mother, and you, even if he was convinced that you didn't love him anymore and that you would never come back to see him. He would have wanted to see you, and at the same time, he was afraid. Afraid that you would reject him, or that you would accept his request. He knew the rules, he knew what he would happen to you if you released him, so... He asked me. I didn't want to do it. I said there had to be a solution. I didn't want you to hate me."

"My love..."

"He said it would be fine. That you would understand. He sang to calm me down. A lullaby you made for him. It was beautiful. Oh, Morpheus, it was beautiful. Forgive me."

Unable to speak, he took her in his arms. His son was right, he didn't hate Y/N. He would never hate her, he was glad she was back, that she wasn't hurt. Yes, Orpheus was long dead, though none of them wanted to accept it.

"My love..." he whispered again, continuing to rock her, trying to calm her crying, as he had done with this little baby that Calliope had given him. "There is nothing to forgive. You granted his wish, you did nothing wrong. You gave my child peace, something I could never have done. I wanted him to live, I was not here for him. At least he's with his wife now. He's happy."

Y/N continued to cry and apologize for several hours, hugging him and letting him kiss her until she was too exhausted to move.

It was not necessary to warn anyone. Once his partner was calmer, although still feeling guilty despite all his reassuring words, the family came.

Morpheus was afraid that they would be violent towards Y/N, that they would insult her, curse her, try to kill her.

The meeting was very strange.

Destiny didn't speak much, only repeating that what had to happen had happened. He quickly added that the other option would have been difficult, for everyone. Death hugged his brother, then Y/N, without saying anything, because it was not necessary. Destruction did not come.

The three youngest were the most surprising. Very serious, very solemn. Despair offered her condolences. Delirium apologized if she had made a mistake. Desire remained in a corner. It wasn't time for teasing, but none of them were mad at Y/N. Their nephew had been on the borders of their domains for too long, it was good that he was free.

Calliope arrived last, calm and serene, but with tears streaming down her cheeks. By stupid reflex, Morpheus stood in front of Y/N, but the muse smiled sadly at him, before passing and taking his companion's hand.

"Thank you." she said. "Thank you for helping my son."

Not considering that she had helped him, Y/N just nodded trying not to cry again. She couldn't, and Morpheus took her back to their room as soon as everyone had left.

Of course, there remained the dreams and nightmares, curious and worried, who wanted to check that everything was alright for their creator, but also for his lover. They all adored Y/N, they didn't like to see her so sad, but above all, they wondered if their master might not blame her for what had happened.

"I do not understand what you mean."

"Well... She... She killed your son, boss." muttered the raven as if he had just said an insult. "Yeah, he asked her, and she's sorry, and I understand, but… You might be upset, and angry."

"I am not."

"Not even a little ?"

"I'm not saying that the loss of my son doesn't cause me any pain. But Y/N is safe and sound thanks to him, and I've only felt joy since her return." he said, stroking the hair of the immortal, who was starting to wake up. "Excuse me, Matthew, but I don't want to leave her alone during this moment. I'll join her in the Waking World, tell Lucienne to watch over the realm while I'm gone."

"Yes, boss. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. If anyone is responsible, it's me. I had minimized my son's suffering. If Y/N had died today... Maybe I would have gone to hell for her. My sister would have laughed at me, saying that I was selfish. I could have helped him, I didn't. My brother is right, things happened as they were supposed to , and now I have to follow my own advice. Accept that he's gone, and savor every moment with Y/N, my Y/N, that he brought back to me."

The raven refrained from answering. He wasn't really satisfied, but he couldn't do anything. It wasn't a nice ending, like in the fairy tales, but it wasn't a bad ending either. Life like stories, their master well knew, did not always have happy endings. They had endings. And if in his Y/N was at his side, that was enough.

#Sandman #dream of the endless #dream of the endless x reader #dream of the endless imagine #dream of the endless fanfiction #morpheus #morpheus x reader #morpheus fanfiction #morpheus imagine

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latibvles · 3 months ago

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Poet you have now unleashed a monster in me as well with the Mouse Hole crossovers. I’m dying to hear more about all of it but for right now, I need more details about Lena and Andrew Haldane. Idc if it takes the least realistic aus but I need them together

WE ARE SHAKING HANDS ANON, I LIKE THE LOOK OF THEM AND LENA DESERVES NICE THINGS. LIKE THE HANDSOME MARINE CAPTAIN WHO'S WAR ENDED JUST A LITTLE TOO EARLY JUST LIKE HERS. We are pulling from The Pacific School of Andrew Haldane Survives His Headshot which isn't the craziest leap to make. I am after all the person who looked at the 100th and said "you know what they need to do? Ride dragons." So... not the craziest thing to suggest. More of Lena & Andy under the cut.

So Lena is... very clearly not from Massachusetts, but you know who is?

Crank who she is very good friends with. And Jo, who she is also very good friends with.

And so Lena Connolly, post-war mechanic, is on her way up to New England, possibly to help Jo get her stuff from her parents' place to move in with Rosie. Or maybe she's just coming up to say hi to her two favorite people after a while of not seeing them. Both things are very Lena, because as we all know: she's a team player.

Maybe the car Lena's got right now isn't the most reliable thing, but it's all she's got for right now — and she's good at fixing them. It should be able to last her from Brooklyn to Boston: a mere four hours, right? Right?

Wrong. Maybe she hits a pothole too hard on the way up or something. But something is definitely knocked out of place and so she has to pull over to fix it. Sputtering exhaust, the poor thing's on its last legs.

Will that stop her from getting all up under the hood to try and fix the problem herself? No.

Will that also stop Andrew Haldane, who's finally coming home after being stuck in the Hospital Carousel for months, from asking his brother to pull over to see what's going on? Absolutely not. Doubly so because this person is half bent over under the hood of the car.

All of which to say — Andy Haldane meets Lena Connolly with a smudge of oil on her cheek, and her hands, frizzy-haired and huffy. Maybe he's making heart eyes about it. Shut up. Anyways she immediately goes on prattling in irritation about what's wrong and how she can't fix it before catching herself.

Robert offers to drive to the nearest telephone to call a tow company. Lena has, well, her stuff in the car so she doesn't want to leave it. Andy Haldane is now volunteering to wait on the side of the road with a complete stranger 98% because it's the right thing to do and 2% because she's pretty.

if I had a dollar for every blonde pacific man I paired with a ginger I'd have two whole dollars which isn't a lot but—

I think it starts as small talk really; curiosity about how she knows so much about cars, which leads into her being a mechanic, which lends itself to "I used to work on the big birds," and "Really?" and "Flight Engineer, 100th Bomb Group" and "Captain, Fifth Marines."

They don't dive into the nitty gritty details. Lena doesn't ask about that pink scar tissue on his temple and the hair that's shorter than the rest of it. Andy doesn't ask about how one of her fingers is just that much shorter than the others.

But he does make her laugh to take her mind off the tragedy that is her current mode of transportation (more like the lack of it). He does offer to take her wherever she's going (which is more like Robert doing it, because Andy isn't quite ready to be driving yet. But he'll gladly sit in that passenger's seat).

"Do you always offer rides to strangers down on their luck on the side of the road?" and "I feel like if I answer that you're gonna poke a hole in it no matter what I say."

Did I mention he likes making her laugh? Did I mention he's definitely got a crush?

They do get to Jo's, eventually, after Robert comes back and late afternoon is ebbing into early evening. Jo's frazzled and she does not recognize Strange Blonde Man with her at the door but Lena assures her that she'll get the full story later.

Lena also isn't shy when she likes somebody, so Andy does in fact get the New York number and not just the Boston one.

Which Andy calls, when she gets back to New York — her dad picks up first though, and she's giggling and apologizing half-heartedly over the phone.

It's a lot of phone calling and sometimes letter writing until Lena comes back up again. Because I can't escape the friends-to-lovers allegations. I also just think that Andy and Lena first kiss at Cape Cod? Sign me up, quite frankly.

I also think that calling someone at 2am because you can't sleep because you are Haunted™ is a look and by a look I mean the Andy/Lena look. Maybe he can't drive all the way to The Bronx but he'll definitely take the train when she's having a particularly hard time in the bleak midwinter.

My kink is couples who kind of have their shit together but are also just a really good team as well as lovers can we tell yet? Because they make a very good team. And Lena has fully committed herself to getting grease stains on that man's cheeks for years to come

#ch: lena connolly #they need a tag ahem #ship: lena/andy #the pacific #masters of the air #*poets anonymous

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thesullengrrrl · 6 months ago

Text

We'll Meet Again - Chapter 5

With only hours left of their time together, Rosie and Elaine try to deal with what's ahead for them.

A/N: Hi, hi, hello there. Thank you all for the reblogs, likes, kudos, comments and anons who always sends in great (and steamy) ideas/imagines! I'm glad you're enjoying this story. Here's the ao3 link if you prefer to read there. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Chapter 5: when sunday comes

The sound of his grumbling snore made Elaine’s eyes shoot up. It was still dark outside, but the dim light from the lamp on his side provided enough light to see her surroundings. Her eyes wandered toward the ceiling, then to the walls, and lastly to the man sleeping in her bed. His back is turned from her, but she can see the movement of his breathing.

Rising and falling, rising and falling, rising and falling…

To prove to herself that this wasn’t a dream, she slowly brushed her hand on his nape, his shoulders, down to his back until where the sheets that cover him started. Her mind was only filled with him. How strong his arms were, him whispering sweet nothings in her ear, his laughter when she cracked a joke, how his facial hair felt in certain places, how he felt…

Her train of thought stopped when she noticed his skin started to dot from the air. She lifted the sheets to shield him from the chill.

Elaine watched Rosie adjust the sheets around him and reach for his watch on the bedside table. “Too early.”

Then, he turned to her side, eyes half-closed. “What?”

“Nothing,” she whispered, smiling at his face.

“Go back to sleep,” he replied, now closing his eyes. “That’s an order.”

“I’m not under you,” she murmured.

“You were earlier.”

A chuckle escaped her. Okay, maybe spending time with Bucky taught him a thing or two and I’m not sure if I could be mad about it, she thought. She placed a soft kiss on his lips which he lazily reciprocated.

“All right Sleeping Beauty,” Elaine commented, trying to suppress a smile from that small action. “I’m going to sleep now.” How could a grown man look…cute? Without the lines on his face, he looked younger, boyish even.

She shifted to her side of the bed and she felt him pull her closer. “Come here,” he mumbled. His warmth easily radiated through the flimsy material of her slip and she couldn’t help but to lean in for comfort.

His face rested near her nape, the pattern of his breathing slowly pulling her to sleep.

*****

The sunlight is already lighting up the room, its rays hitting different surfaces. Rosie turned and saw Elaine’s sleeping figure—mouth slightly parted with her two front teeth peeking through, her hair splayed in the pillow and her shoulder which he promptly moved away. For a moment, he considered running his fingers through her hair, but decided against it as his hand shook a little.

The image of her pulling his tie before he could answer her question “Are you coming in?” is still stuck in his head. How could she do that? What made her decide to do it? Loneliness? Attraction? He hoped for the latter.

When she asked him to stay, he was a goner.

Elaine stirred and sleepily smiled at him, with one eye open, almost like a cheeky wink.

“What..?” she groaned.

Rosie would have fallen in love right there and there. Instead, he returned her smile. “Good morning.”

“Hmmm,” she hummed. “Morning. What time is it?”

He reached for his watch on the bedside table. “It’s quarter past seven.”

“It’s Sunday, Robert,” she whispered, laying her head against his chest. Then she pulled the covers over them.

He did not miss the slightly irritated tone when she called him by his first name. It made him smile in endearment.

“We gotta have breakfast,” Rosie coaxed her. “Eggs, toast, that sort of thing. Come on.”

“Hmmm…I already had eggs last night,” she told him, making his chest rumble with laughter. “Too many eggs is bad, you know.”

“Not those eggs,” he answered, his laughter dying down. “Come on. Or do you want room service?”

“Yes…later.”

“Elaine,” he gently called. “Aren’t you hungry?”

Realizing that the man might actually be hungry, she stretched her arms and legs and sat up. With her eyes still half-closed, she croaked, “Fine. Get coffee and some bread. You figure out the rest.”

Rosie kissed her cheek and dialed the phone.

*****

A small food cart was at the foot of the bed. It included pieces of toast and muffins, ham and eggs, a pot of coffee, and a few slices of various fruits. Elaine immediately reached for coffee, while Rosie placed a bit of everything on his plate. Feeling a bit conscious, she took a piece of muffin and took a bite.

“You should eat more,” he told her.

“I’m just warming up,” she answered. Elaine was never the breakfast type of person, but he didn’t need to know that. After finishing her muffin, she forked some ham and eggs from his plate and placed it in her mouth. “I wish it’s bacon, but this would do.”

“I think they’ve got a different type of bacon here.”

Elaine hummed. When she finished after a few bites, she once filled her cup with coffee and leaned on the headboard.

“What should we do today?” Elaine asked, sipping her coffee. “Stay here? Go out? Go to the park? The church?”

“You…go to church?” Rosie asked back. He placed his empty plate back in the cart and covered it. Then poured coffee in another cup to finish his meal.

“What church? Are you Catholic?”

“Sometimes, Catholic church, and yes.” she answered in order. Rosie gave her a confused look, genuinely surprised.

“Are you shocked that a good Catholic girl like me would sleep with you on a first date?”

“A bit. I’m not sure ‘good’ and ‘girl’ though…” Rosie countered. This earned him a pillow in the face. “Also, it was a date?”

“Yes, any objections, your Honor?” she questioned.

“No further objections,” he answered, leaning in to kiss her again. “So, what should we do today?”

“I asked you first,” she reminded him.

“Well, I want to spend this day how you want it. Your call, milady,” he answered, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Hmmmm…” she hummed, dramatically placing a finger under her chin. “Maybe we should take a shower first, walk around and see where the day takes us. Is that all right?”

“That seems like a plan,” Rosie said, lifting himself from her. He picked up his remaining things and went to the door. “I’ll see you later.”

“What, you don’t want to shower with me?” Elaine deadpanned. Rosie’s mouth fell open. “I don’t think—”

She cackled at his reaction. “I’m kidding! I’ll knock at your door later. See you, Rosie.”

Rosie gave her an exasperated look before closing her door. Not even taking his first step, a deep booming voice filled the hallway. “Good morning, Rosie!”

He stopped and slowly turned where the voice came from. It was Major Egan, disheveled and grinning at him, obviously still under the influence of alcohol.

“Good morning, major,” he greeted.

“Fun night?” Bucky asked, putting his key inside the knob.

“Yes, it was…”

“Seems like a fun night. Enjoy the day, Rosie. Just remember we leave at five,” the major reminded him, winking at him.

Rosie exhaled loudly. He could not decide what to be more ashamed of—him talking about flying in his underwear or being caught leaving a woman’s room by the same man.

Before Bucky could close his door, Rosie placed a foot at the gap. This surprised the officer and opened the door.

“Whoa, what is it?”

“I have a favor to ask, sir.”

*****

The two ended up in Ravenscourt Park, a stone’s throw away from the hotel. Rosie and Elaine walked hand in hand, while Rosie carried a borrowed picnic basket. It contained two bottled drinks, some crackers, their books, and a smuggled blanket from the hotel. Rosie suspected that Thomas looked the other way when he saw the peeking white material from the basket.

Elaine picked a spot with less people around to lay their blanket in. When they left the hotel, the sky seemed a little gray for their liking but now it has cleared up. It was sunny, and the trees looked as if they’re sparkling from the light.

Both were reading, but in different ways. Wearing her white-rimmed sunglasses, Elaine was on her back and slowly making her way through her book. She thought that she could do both things—bask in the sun and read.

Rosie, on the other hand, was sitting up and seemingly concentrated on his own copy.

This lasted for almost an hour until Elaine laid her book on her side. Rosie noticed this and laid down as well for a break. He propped himself to her side.

“Can I see?” he asked, motioning at her book.

Elaine handed the book to him and he scanned the pages. He stopped when he reached the title page and saw the name E.M BYRNE scribbled on the upper right page. Tucking this information in his head, he asked about the title instead.

“Frankenstein?”

“Yes…why?” Elaine retorted, lowering her sunglasses. “Any problem?”

“I just didn’t expect it from you.”

“And what did you expect, may I ask, good sir?”

Rosie ignored her exaggerated fake British accent, trying not to smile at how ridiculous she sounded.

“Contemporary authors, Jane Austen or…Virginia Woolf?” he answered.

“I did like The Native Son,” she shared while pointing to his copy of the book. “It should be read by everyone, really. I enjoyed Emma by Jane Austen, although I think Persuasion is the one that struck me the most. Virginia Woolf’s challenging, but I got through her because I had to…classes and all that.”

“How about Frankenstein? Why?”

“I like how it shows what happens when a man decides to play God and deal with the consequences. Also, it’s the first classic I’ve read. You never forget your first.”

She winked at him and started reading again. Rosie laid down the blanket and smiled to himself. He turned to his side and watched her read. His slow breath warmed the right side of her face and it was distracting her. I will not be responsible for my actions if he keeps this up. She continued to read the same paragraph and on the third time, she gave up. Sensing his eyes on her, she dropped the book on the grass and faced him.

“Stop distracting me,” Elaine scolded, her tone playful.

“I’m not,” Rosie denied. “I’m just reading what you’re reading.”

Before he could do anything, Elaine removed her glasses. She cupped his cheek and leaned in to press her lips to his. His mustache of course tickled her, but it didn’t matter. He responded hesitant at first, then gently matching her enthusiasm. Rosie let her lay him on his back, half of her body hovering him. She lightly grazed her tongue against his teeth, prompting him to deepen the kiss. When she pulled away for air, he opened his eyes, heady from the faint smell of her perfume and from the kiss they just shared. The sun behind her head and it was like she had a halo.

The bark of a dog brought them back. They were in a public park, snogging like two randy teenagers. An old man with a dog passed them by, glaring and shaking his head at them.

Elaine giggled and then laid her head on his chest. She listened to his heartbeat, still beating fast which flattered her. Rosie chuckled at the contrast of her today’s shyness from last night.

“What are you laughing at?” Elaine asked.

“We’re so embarrassing.”

“You’re more embarrassing,” Elaine started while she reached in her pocket. “You have lipstick all over your face.”

Rosie’s eyes widened. “What?! Do I?”

She moved from him and wiped his face instead. She stared at him for a moment. “I wish you don’t use too much pomade. I mean your hair is so…lush. I would run my fingers through it all the time if I could.”

“Do you want to see a bird’s nest again?” he answered instead, already a bit shy over her words.

She pressed a small kiss on his lips. “Yes. Your bird nest hair looks better than…whatever this is.”

“Hey! This,” Rosie pointed at his hair, “takes a lot of time!”

“Do you even pomade your hair when you’re flying?” she wondered, now sitting up. “What’s the point?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “I want to look presentable to the crew.”

“Is there eine frau in the air?”

“Eine frau?” he asked.

“You know, German translation for girl.”

“You studied German?” he asked instead.

Elaine is unsure how to explain the concept of an application where you can learn any language, even fictional ones.

“I took a class once in college. I was supposed to take French, but the class was full,” she lied instead. “I know words here and there. Nothing substantial.”

“Do you have a favorite word?” Rosie wondered.

“Kopfkino,” she mentioned. “A movie that plays in your head.”

“That sounds…whimsical. Like a made up word.”

“The German language has specific words for specific things. I think they even have a word for ‘a person with a very punchable face’,” she shared.

Rosie wondered if this was his own Kopfkino. The setting is awfully right—bright and clear weather, them in Sunday clothes, two people reading and kissing in the park…

“This could be someone’s Kopfkino, you know,” Elaine said, motioning her hand towards their surroundings. “Miles away, there’s someone daydreaming about this whole scenario.”

“Maybe this could be ours?” Rosie suggested.

“Is it if we’re living it right now?”

“What is this then?”

“Hmmm,” Elaine thought. “Future memory.”

Rosie felt warm in his stomach, not with excitement but what he recognizes as worry. What happens after this? In two words, she managed to open a part of his head that he had been trying to shut since last night. He tried to ignore it by taking her hand and laced his fingers with his.

Elaine sensed this sudden pause. She felt like she said something she shouldn’t have. Was it the Kopfkino thing?

“So, you didn’t answer my question. Is there eine frau in the air? A female pilot?” Elaine asked, trying to sound as playful as she could.

“No, no, female pilots up there,” he informed her. “Why, would you be jealous if there were any?”

“No.”

Rosie’s mouth fell open in mock surprise. “That was quick.”

“Because I can kiss you right now and your frau might need to wait a little while.”

He laughed and watched Elaine animatedly look at both left and right and when she was sure no one was looking, she grinned at him.

“Liebling.”

She leaned in once again, this time she gently pressed her lips on his left cheek. “It means favorite.” Then his right cheek. She continued ever-so-lightly on the tip of his nose, and finally, reaching his lips. “Could also mean darling.”

He could only hear the sound of his own heart beating. Loud. Fast. Like the first time he flew in Laredo when he felt like the skies were his.

She picked up her book and started reading again.

He liked the sensation of her hand against his, her body just sitting there as if waiting for him. Maybe he’ll kiss her again before they say goodbye. Rosie gazed at her and started counting their remaining hours together.

His book is now lying on the grass, long forgotten.

“What are you thinking?” Elaine asked, her head not moving from her book.

“Nothing, I’m just glad you’re here.”

Elaine placed the book inside the basket and rested her head on his extended arm. Rosie smelled like fresh laundry and specifically him. When she raised her head to look at him, he leaned in to reach her lips.

She could always read later, but for now, watching the sky and feeling the sunlight on their faces seemed to be a better option.

*****

After their little picnic in the park, Rosie insisted on carrying their picnic blanket and holding her hand. Some older couples who passed them smiled at the two. To the people passing by, they’re a couple enjoying a sunny Sunday.

When they passed by a church, she pulled him to stop and Elaine peered inside. The doors were open but there were only a few people praying, so she pulled Rosie’s hand and they entered. Those who were not praying are lighting candles in the candle stands near the entrance.

The altar was surprisingly sparse, with only a huge crucifix hanging on the wall. There’s an altar table, a tabernacle, a lectern, two baskets of flowers for decor and two tall candles on both sides.

“Why are we here?” Rosie whispered.

“The quietest place in Hammersmith,” she answered.

They walked towards the last pew. As they sat, Rosie was at a loss on what he’s supposed to do. Should he kneel? Should he interlock his fingers and pray? But when he looked at her, she was sitting silently, staring at the crucified Jesus.

With the silence between them, the feeling of worry started to bubble up in his stomach once more. This time, he could not ignore it. Before he could stop himself, the dreaded question came out of his mouth.

“What happens after this weekend?” he asked nervously.

The air suddenly felt heavy. Elaine knew this was coming and in her old life, all this will be solved by going back to the hotel, checking out, and going to some random pub and disappearing in their loo. But that won’t no longer work, wouldn’t it? Things always find ways to sneak up on her.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and looked at him.

“We go back to the real world,” she whispered. “You’ll go back to Thorpe Abbotts, I’ll go back to New York.”

“With what happened last night, don’t you think we had something…special? That we should continue whatever this is?” Rosie countered, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Last night was wonderful,” she assured him. “And this weekend has been the best one I’ve had for a while. But Thorpe Abbotts and New York are two worlds apart. It wouldn’t work.”

“Many soldiers have relationships overseas. They write letters all the time. Can’t we do that as well?”

Elaine was brought back to the time she convinced him to take a lover before he enlisted. But things changed, have they? 1941. That year seemed like a lifetime ago for both of them, a fantasy world they once lived in.

“And many soldiers receive a Dear John every single day across the world,” she countered. “Don’t you want to leave this weekend as it is? Your own little kopfkino when you’re all alone?”

“I don’t want this to be a little film in my head, Elaine,” he admitted. “I want to know you more, I want to see you after the war, maybe take you out to dinner in New York with all the time in the world. Minty said when we visit him, drinks are on him.”

Elaine can’t help but smile about Minty. “You don’t even know when the war will end, Robert.”

“Do you?” he questioned, facing her. “No one knows when this will end.”

It ends two years from now. “No, I don’t,” she lied, touching his hair. “But the end seems so far away.”

“Don’t you want to see me anymore?” Rosie questioned.

Elaine paused, picking her next words carefully.

“If we continue this, we’ll only be miserable in the long run,” she started, trying to steady her voice. “We’ll write letters, I’ll ask if you’re okay and you’ll say you’re fine even though I know you could be lying.”

“I’d rather have this weekend and leave than watch things rot between us.”

“You seem so sure of what’s going to happen,” he remarked. Oh, if you only know.

“Because life happens. You’ll forget about me, I’ll forget about you,” she told him instead.

“I don’t want to forget about you, Elaine,” he admitted. “And I don’t want you to forget about me, too.”

She wanted to say the same thing, but cannot bring herself to do so. It would only complicate things more.

An elderly woman has now started lighting up the candle at the left side of the altar.

“So this is the end, then?” Rosie asked.

“I’m afraid so,” Elaine answered. “I’m sorry, Rosie.”

Rosie wanted to argue his way more, tell her that he won’t lie and write as much as he could, anything, but her silence after what he said cemented it all.

A small part of him regrets asking the question, but given the hours they have remaining, doesn’t he have the right to know where this is going? To hope for something? He felt her take his hand and started running her finger on his palm.

After this, they’ll be only each other’s memory. And she wanted to take it all in, no matter how greedy it felt. Can’t she have at least this?

Rosie could only lean his head on top of hers, thinking about all the words they have said and cherishing the feel of her finger against his skin. Despite it all, he would have very much liked to hear about her days, her opinions and thoughts on certain things—like a tether to home, an another world.

When the old lady started to put a large book in the lectern, Elaine knew their time was up. The mass will start in a few minutes. She stood up and he picked up the basket and she led him to the candle stands by the entrance.

Elaine extended her hand. “D’you have a quarter? A penny?”

“I think a pence…” Rosie answered, digging in his pockets. When he got a coin, he handed it to her. Elaine placed it in a coin box and took two white flaky candles from a basket. She lit it up from the lighted candles, and placed them in their proper slots.

Rosie watched her murmur a prayer which he also joined in through silence. He took a moment to think of those who were wounded, passed on, and missing. When she was done, she looked up to him. “One’s for you.”

“For what?” he asked.

“If I tell you, it would be jinxed,” she answered. She pulled him towards the exit when the people started pouring in for the mass.

They quietly made their way back to the hotel. Elaine secretly hoped he would reach for her hand, but instead, a small distance welcomed her. She looked up to him, but his face was blank with expression and only focusing on their destination. Should she ask for the time? Or crack a lame joke?

Elaine could not decide if it was the silence or the distance that stung her.

When they reached the hotel, Rosie immediately went to the concierge and returned the picnic basket to Thomas. He apologized for smuggling the blanket, to which the man waved it all right. Elaine gathered the books and they rode the elevator together, still wordless to each other.

In the hallway, they spotted Bucky was about to enter his room, holding a box. When he heard footsteps, he smiled at the two. “Hey Rosie, I already got the thing you—”

Rosie rushed to him to get the box and thanked Bucky. He rushed on, slotting his key to the knob that it fell to the floor. Elaine picked them up for him. “Rosie, we should—”

He sighed and turned to her, his chest beating so fast. The reality of their farewell has now sunk in to him and he wanted to have a moment for himself.

“I…I have to pack, Elaine. I’ll see you later.”

Slotting his key successfully this time, he opened his door and shut it a little too hard.

Elaine’s lips formed a thin line and when she walked towards her room, she saw Bucky with a confused expression.

“What was in the box?” Elaine asked him.

“We got you a scarf for your birthday,” Bucky informed her, his expression turning to neutral. “Well…he asked me to buy it since he wanted to spend the day with you. Didn’t realize you’ll be back this early.”

The guy wanted to surprise her with a scarf. To what, strangle herself with?

“What happened, anyway?” he asked. “Lovers’ quarrel of some sort?”

“He asked me what will happen after this weekend and I told him that we’ll go back to the real world,” she explained.

Bucky whistled. “That’s rough.”

“I feel horrible,” Elaine added.

“Ah, he’s a good guy,” Bucky assured her, clapping her shoulder. “He’ll be fine. Maybe he just needs some time to think.”

“You know him that well?”

“Rosie talked about flying in his underwear the first time he introduced himself to me and my fellow officer,” he recounted. “Back in the base, he’s always calm and collected. I don’t think that type of person gets angry for too long.”

Elaine had a lot of questions about him flying a plane while in underwear, but for now it wasn’t important. All she wants to do is lie down in bed and think. She thanked Bucky and entered her room, their books still in her hand.

Letting herself fall down in the depths of time in her wardrobe, she wondered if there’s any song that would speak to her situation. Anything just to make her feel less alone, without talking to anyone.

#we'll meet again #we'll meet again fic #masters of the air #masters of the air fic #mota fic #rosie rosenthal #oc: elaine byrne #rosie rosenthal x oc #time travel au

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